


The Weight of the World and Its Heaven

by Petronia



Series: The Weight of the World and Its Heaven [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
Genre: Backstory, Catholic Iconography, Clarice has just about had it with you crazy SOBs, Contemporary Art, Dream Sequences, F/M, Future Fic, Harris/Fuller/Mann/Demme/etc. extended deep house megamix, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Migratory Birds, Original Dogs, POV Multiple, Paris Catacombs, Physarum polycephalum, Post-Canon, Salomé - Richard Strauss, Teatro Colón, canon compliant Hannigram, canon compliant art murder, canon compliant pretentious dialogue, think of it as Season 5 plus setup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-04 00:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2902670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petronia/pseuds/Petronia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bedelia took a sip of wine. "We all die, Hannibal," she said, "often before we cease to breathe. I suggest only that you give full consideration to what comes afterward."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Sugar Loaf Key

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks and a round of applause to my Spring Fling artist, [Alexis](http://alexisnasyaprall.tumblr.com) \-- check out the art if you haven't yet, it is awesome!

**_Present day_ **

Will Graham and Clarice Starling sat on a driftwood log on the beach. The sky was a pale aqua, the sea too bright to look at. The tide was in recess, and the endless slick expanse of sugar sand around them reflected light like a mirror. Herons picked their way down the surf line, their distant images wavering and reforming.

Clarice wore sunglasses. She had kicked off her shoes and folded her blazer over her arm. Even so she was aware her white blouse and dark office skirt marked her out, though there were no other onlookers. She studied Graham's profile. He was a handsome, thin man with eyes the colour of opaque seawater, his hair unkempt and wind-tousled. The sun had baked shallow creases into his elbows and wrists and the corners of his eyes. It was hard to picture him in the Brutalist confines of Quantico; he looked like he belonged where he was.

"The one last night was the daughter of the junior Senator from Tennessee," she said. "Catherine Martin. We think she was abducted from the parking lot behind her apartment building."

"I don't follow the news," said Graham.

"Jack Crawford thought you might give him a call."

Graham made a sharp, amused sound.

"He knows better," he said. "He knows better than to come here, too. So instead he sent – no, he _pointed_ you, didn't he? Gave you a loose rein. I hope you expensed your car rental, Agent Starling."

"I'm not a full agent, just a trainee. I work in the lab with Agent Price. It's been all hands on deck."

Graham stood abruptly and took a few steps, toward the water and the herons.

"Mr. Gra—Will. Catherine's probably still alive. But it's a matter of days. The last one was dead after three."

"That's clever," said Graham. He did not turn to face her. "Keep saying her name. Keep saying mine, too; make sure I see her as a person... Wouldn't want me to _dehumanize_ her."

Clarice waited. She knew his voice better than the rest of him: it circulated at Quantico alongside the stories. Ardelia had copied the mp3s from a guy she knew at the Forensics Science Research and Training Center.

_Everyone has thought of killing someone, one way or another; be it at your own hand or the hand of God._

_Why did she deserve this?_

Now, when he spoke, she could hear an echo of her own inflection that was not present in the recordings. The South seeping back in like groundwater. It did not seem to be intentional.

"I can't help Jack. All that's over. It's gone."

"I understand that," she said. "I was hoping you could confirm something from memory. That's all."

He turned at that. She took her phone from her blazer pocket and held it out, screen side up. She didn't think he could see the photo from where he stood, with the light behind and around him.

For a long moment she thought he wouldn't take it, and then he stepped forward and did. He gazed down at it, expressionless.

"Where did you get this?" he said. His voice was soft.

"From an old art periodical. It matches a clipping in Dr. Hannibal Lecter's file. You put it there."

His eyes snapped up to hers.

"You _spoke_ to Hannibal Lecter?"

She said nothing. His intuition had short-circuited the conversation she'd envisaged. Will Graham laughed, a short harsh sound, and turned again, passing a hand over his face.

"Jack Crawford," he said, "sent a trainee to interview Hannibal Lecter. A trainee."

Clarice spoke to his tense back. "Dr. Lecter talked to me," she said. "He gave information – details – proving that he knew Catherine's kidnapper. Inside knowledge that could potentially lead to an arrest."

_Quid pro quo, Clarice._

"And yet you're here," said Graham.

"That's not all he knows," said Clarice. "I hope we find her, but it won't end there. I'm sure of it. Aren't you?"

Graham was silent for a minute. "It won't end at all," he said, eventually. "There's always the next one, and the one after. I've learnt that. You should get out of this line of work while you still can."

"Sounds to me like I should keep going," Clarice said. Graham closed his eyes.

"Start again this evening," he said. And, before she could parse this as qualified success, "I hope you don't mind dogs."

 

_Driftwood_

 

* * *

 

"Here's a good question: _why wasn't the FBI aware?_

"After Lecter's escape there was a great deal of noise to signal. Media furore, yes, but also within the FBI, other law enforcement agencies, Interpol... He was suspected of having been active much longer and more prolifically than the Chesapeake Ripper identity, which only went back about half a decade. And he was _cosmopolitan!_ Lived for a full year in Europe under assumed names, going out in society – to the opera, the theatre... But the FBI found very few firm biographical details. He'd destroyed documents. What his acquaintances knew amounted to hearsay. So the question arose: what if he'd killed in France? In Italy? In Grenada, in the late eighties? You'd be lucky to find a case file. Knowing his victim profile, how would you even identify that the deaths were connected?

"So they reviewed cold cases. Every retired detective with a pet theory to grind. Every unsolved mutilation on the Eastern Seaboard plus Continental Europe, 1977 to 2012 – thirty-five years – was suspected of being a Hannibal Lecter original. In all that somebody must have looked at the Baby Doll killings, but they would've been shunted to the bottom of the list. Firstly, there was already a perpetrator. Secondly, there was a survivor account. And thirdly, the victim profiles were off. Lecter didn't touch children, and he had no sexual interest in young girls. Roland Piche was written off as a gangland hit.

"Ultimately, my tip-off came from Freddie Lounds' estate. Freddie – and this was typical – retraced Will Graham's steps rather than Hannibal Lecter's. Graham actually met Jane Marceau; he interviewed her during the first manhunt, presumably after the Paris incident came to Interpol's attention and was attributed back to Lecter. Freddie, therefore, worked from the assumption that Marceau was part of the Lecter story, she just didn't know how. If she'd lived, the rest might have followed.

"Of course, it's more than likely Lecter told Graham about her. One of the greatest mysteries in the narrative is not only how much Special Agent Graham knew, but _when_ he knew it."

 

–Lafcadio Stane, journalist and writer, interviewed by Ellen Muir, _The Hidden Documenta of Hannibal Lecter,_ Netflix Films

 


	2. Baltimore

**_Five years earlier_ **

"[...] Many of these were avid note-takers. Stammets, the pharmacist, referred to ‘trial runs', as Gein did to ‘experiments'; sometimes merely ‘samples' or even ‘swatches'... In our minds this terminology may conjure associations of Nazi science, humans used in the laboratory like rats or mice. These connotations are misleading.

"The serial killer – I am not generalizing here to other, ah, flavours of psychopath or mass murderer – the serial killer demonstrates no scientific rigour. He does not form hypotheses based on observation, nor maintain experimental controls. All of that is, to him, an excuse. There is no rational methodology, no directed goal to his curiosity; no looked-for end that justifies his means. He is a creature of whim, and of process. The experience itself constitutes his end.

"A more astute comparison would be with a child at play. Observe an infant or toddler with a new toy: they will toss it around, pull it apart, put it to the test – _use_ it – until such time as they've obtained mastery over this new aspect of their environment. The child does not differentiate fully between the mastered object and himself. The toy may break, but keeping it whole is no object; its purpose in the world is to fine-tune the child's control. We may define _play_ as an activity with no moral dimension.

"If that association troubles you, consider carefully why it does so.

"I will mention two further lines of thought, which we do not have time to fully discuss today, although you are free to explore their implications in your weekly journals. The first relates to the common perception that artistic creation is by its nature exploratory; that artists draw from an interior state not unlike that of, yes, a child at play. Within this paradigm, which is not contradictory to what we have just discussed, we might conceptualize our serial killer as a purveyor of _art naif_ – operating as an outsider to the pre-conceived rules of the gallery, perhaps – though, increasingly today, he may perceive himself as responding to an existing tradition, and be responded to in return. The second is that killing, insofar as it is peak experience, is addictive. All pleasurable consumption is: hunger itself is indistinguishable from a symptom of addiction. The child suckling at its mother's breast is the earliest and purest exemplary. [Inaudible remark from the audience] What's that?"

[Further inaudible comments]

"Have _you_ breast-fed a child, Palmer?" [Tittering.] "It's thirsty work, I'm told."

–Will Graham, Lecture #7, Forensic Psychology 390, FBI Academy, Quantico, ██/██/201█ (transcribed by Ardelia Mapp)

 

 

* * *

 

[Excerpt from series of interviews conducted between ██/██/201█ and ██/██/201█, Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane (BSHCI)  
  
AB – Dr. Alana Bloom, MD, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Quantico  
ES – Eldon Stammets (patient ID #████████)

Transcript begins]

AB: I'd like us to talk about your maze boxes, Eldon. You asked about them last week.

ES: Have they gone to sleep yet?

AB: (pauses) I made the request. It turns out they were taken to the Smithsonian for identification, with the rest of your collection. I spoke to the mycologist in charge there. He said they were slime molds, a species used for research.

ES: Physarum polycephalum. They like rolled oats, um, basic carbohydrates. They've probably gone to sleep now but, ah, it's good. Good that they're safe.

AB: It's important to you that they're safe.

ES: They help me.

AB: In what way?

ES: They can find their way through every time. They'll find the food as long as you put it somewhere. They find each other.

AB: In the maze, you mean.

ES: They start off as separate cells but they fuse together – that's what the plasmodium is. It's multiple nuclei but all one cell. Swarming together... Have you ever seen that? [She indicates no] You have to watch for a long time, but they move beautifully, like the tide. They sing to themselves too. There are artists who can... who've managed to record them. Electrical impulses. Like thought. That's what's thought is, you know. Just pure... pure electricity.

AB: Does that comfort you? Pure thought. The ability to connect?

ES: It's harder for us because we're, ah, something went wrong, you know? We have _membranes._ Just layers and layers of ugly hierarchical bullshit. Calcium deposits. Internal organs we don't control. We don't make the right _enzymes_. It's been tough to... (audible swallow) I had to make do.

AB: Plasmodia are meant to fuse, Eldon. We are not. Human beings are individuals. Each of us is unique in body and mind.

ES: That's not a good thing. It's a mistake.

AB (gently): You can't impose that judgement on others.

ES: (pause) Is Agent Graham still here?

AB: I can't discuss Special Agent Graham, I'm afraid.

ES: They let me have newspapers, sometimes. He's being released, isn't he? They said he ate that Hobbs girl, and then they said he didn't. I never even saw him here. He must be on one of the basement floors.

AB: Eldon, I'd like us to—

ES: (speaking over her rapidly) Sorry. Sorry, it's private, I know. I shouldn't ask. But it's important because he's suffering. I could have helped him. You knew him from before, didn't you, Doctor Bloom? You must see that. You want to help people too.

AB: That shouldn't be your focus, Eldon. You have to be able to help yourself first.

ES: Do you help Will Graham?

AB: (long pause) He's helping himself, I think.

ES: I thought maybe he ate her, you know, that's one way to do it. We have enzymes in our stomach. But it's just meat then. The thoughts are gone. He should've let me plant her, and then he would have had her with him forever. It's too late now.

[end excerpt]

 

* * *

 

Later, at the museum members' preview, Lori MacDonald touched her elbow and said, with a significant look at Hannibal, "It was about time, darling. I'm very happy for you."

Alana smiled. Made a murmur that may have been taken as thanks or assent. Internally she felt caught out, in a way Jack Crawford's physical intrusion had not managed. Something in her, or about her (she did not for a moment think the slip was Hannibal's), had revealed the information to onlookers – her gaze? Her stance? It dismayed her that the change was unconscious and unidentifiable.

It would make sense, she thought, if the new and tenuous thing were – love. The word seemed too grand to inhabit. She recognized the theoretical potential, within herself, for a passionate intensity to uncoil like her temper. But it had not happened yet, and Alana (a professional in her field, she thought drily) did not know what the deferment presaged. She was afraid that the fever might be more crippling the longer it was avoided, like chicken pox. An ailment natural to youth.

Will had come close. But she'd stayed _reasonable,_ for all the good that had done. Whereas Hannibal had merely extended a gentle temptation – allowed a certain measured dance. She was aware Lori _inter alia_ in Hannibal's social circle saw her as the chatelaine figure of his entertainments, arriving early to help in the kitchen and greet the guests, circulating at his side with a smile. It would be disingenuous if Hannibal weren't also aware, and amused that Alana was aware. In recent years she felt he had mentally incorporated her into the performance of these grand occasions; a private game for the two of them.

And now, suddenly, the game was up.

She made her excuses and slipped away to the far point of the exhibition space, hoping to find it deserted (it was). The room was perhaps twenty by twenty feet, and occupied by a single work: an abstract, twisting figure shrouded in white wax, suspended centrally at eye level by a pyramidal structure of what appeared to be red wire. They bristled like masses of long spines from its body and disappeared into the darkness of the ceiling, or trailed along the floor. One had to approach to see that the wires ended in hollow metal needles, that the whole was somehow _wet_.

Alana gazed at it for a long time. She couldn't parse if the liquid was clear and the tubes crimson, or the inverse; or whether the whole was in factual or suggested motion. Gravity dictated a fall toward the figure, but she intuited the opposite: a _wicking away,_ and a continuous, unheimlich replenishment. If one were to draw out a needle—

"Saint Sebastian-Ochosi," Hannibal said, from behind her. She had not heard his approach, but felt no surprise; her body seemed subliminally tuned to his presence. "A syncretic figure of worship in Candomblé, as practiced in Rio de Janeiro. Ochosi is a lord of the forest, and of the hunt; and, through figurative extension, of the search for insight or justice."

"That's a form of hunting, I suppose."

"Problem solving is an old pleasure for the human species."

"And Saint Sebastian was shot with arrows." Hence the penetrative imagery.

"One of the few historically verified martyrs of Domitian's Great Persecution, along with Saint Agnes." Hannibal touched her elbow lightly, in the same place Lori had, and stepped past her, his gaze fixed on the installation. "Art history elides it, but Sebastian was martyred twice. He survived his arrow wounds, and when they had healed, he reappeared in public to harangue the Emperor. Domitian ordered him to be stoned, and the body thrown in the sewers. But it was miraculously retrieved, unblemished."

"He must have been beautiful," Alana said, without thinking. Hannibal did not quite smile.

"In the traditional iconography, yes."

"But not in this."

"You don't find it beautiful?"

"It's…" _Obscene_. She looked at him. "It's raw. It's about connection."

"Martyrdom is sacrificial pain. A deliberate dissolution and eversion of self, ego and body. Transcendence in progress."

Something in his voice caught at her. She turned, seeing him anew: self-contained and somehow untouched, a man nearly fifty.

Alana was thirty-five. She ached for him, suddenly and obscurely.

"Do you think – you've ever experienced anything like that?"

Hannibal did not immediately answer. She had always liked that about him: that he could have been facile in all his interactions, but was not. He took a few steps toward the centre of the work, and raised his hand as if he would caress the waxen cipher of its face. The gesture hovered, not touching.

"No," he said finally. "But I understand the fascination. Within the confines of the chrysalis the caterpillar is broken down to plasma, and rebuilt again: all previous mistakes rewound and erased. Do we not envy the butterfly?"

 

* * *

 

Later still, she asked, "How do you know he's not setting a trap for you?"

Will said, "I don't." Smiled briefly at her look, without humour. And then, "You told me about your dream. Shall I tell you one of mine?"

She nodded. Tasted bitterness in the back of her throat; whether it was blood or bile was hard to tell.

Will looked down at his interlaced fingers.

"I've dreamt this a few times," he said, "or the beginning of it. In the dream I'm standing on a beach. It's sandy, carved into dunes by the wind, and amid the sand there's tall grass growing; the kind with rough blades, etched with salt from the air. There are herons, wading in the surf... I'm watching the tide come in. It won't reach where I stand, but further away the beach extends out into a long spit of sand, like a dike, which seems likely to disappear under. Beyond that there's only a dark haze. I don't know if it's an island, or the shore of the bay.

"I'm alone, but I know there's somewhere I have to be. No one will come looking, though. It's up to me to find where I'm going.

"That's when I see him… Hannibal."

Will's hands, Alana noticed, were still. At some point, he had learnt to keep perfectly still.

"He's far off. Just walking along the water's edge, down the dike, receding into the distance. He hasn't seen me, but I know _him,_ somehow, from the silhouette. So I follow him… I start to run. It's hard going, in the sand, but if I don't get close to him the tide will come in between us. I don't want to lose his trail.

"I never catch up to him. He disappears into the haze. Until last night.

"In last night's dream I manage to follow him over the dunes, all the way across the water. The sand turns into grass, into trees, into forest. It looks wild, overgrown, but there are… ruins. Shells of buildings and streets with gnarled roots breaking through the paving. Bits of statuary. Like all of it was a city once.

"Eventually I come across a square, with a dried-up fountain; and looming over it a grand, Gothic house, in brick and gray stone, with turrets all covered in ivy. The trees grow to the bottom of its front steps and all around, blocking out the sky. The windows are dark. I don't see Hannibal, but I know he's inside. I realise this is the place.

"The door is unlocked.

"Inside it's shadowy, and cold. The walls are panelled and the shutters closed, the curtains drawn. There's a marble staircase that sweeps up from the entrance hall – just the way you'd picture. I go upstairs; I'm trying not to make noise.

"I start opening doors to rooms, looking for Hannibal. And I find… others."

Will's eyes flicked up to hers. Then away again, tracking an imaginary path at eye level.

"They're sitting in chairs, mostly, pulled up against the wall. Dozens of them: all silent and in a row, like a doctor's waiting room. I see Beverley Katz. Abel Gideon too. Marissa Schurr… Cassie Boyle is there. And James Gray. I see Georgia Madchen, and I can tell she recognizes me, but no one else does. They look up when I open the door, and they stare, but they have nothing to say to me.

"I start to look for Abigail. I think that I might take her with me, if I find her. But she's not there.

"Eventually I find Hannibal. It's the library of the house, but it looks just like his office. He's sitting on the blue loveseat, and there's someone lying across it, with their head in his lap. They're not making a sound, but it seems to me that they're crying. I think – maybe it's Abigail. It's so dark it's hard to tell. And Hannibal's touching their hair, gently, running his fingers through it, and his eyes…

"Neither of them notices I'm there, though I'm right in front of them. I come very close; enough to touch. Then the person Hannibal's holding starts to scream. It's the way someone screams when they've held back too long, and once they start, they forget how to stop.

"When I hear the voice I realize it's me.

"Then I realize I never followed Hannibal. He had me; I was there all along. The other me is still on the beach, and it's too late for him. The tide must have come in."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will's dream is primarily inspired by Shirin Neshat's surrealist short film, _Illusions and Mirrors_ (2013), starring Natalie Portman in lieu of Hugh Dancy. 
> 
> For a fascinating overview of slime moulds and the slightly weirder people who love them, I recommend the indie documentary _The Creeping Garden_ (2014).


	3. Paris

**_Five years earlier_ **

"That time you freed the birds," Will said. "That was here, wasn't it?"

Rue Froidevaux – eponymous of luckless Franklyn's great-grand-uncle – ran along the long edge of Cimetière Montparnasse, and angled to meet Boulevard Raspail at the busy, green square of Denfert-Rochereau. Night had fallen, and Hannibal and Will were strolling, side by side, unhurried and without fixed destination; alone but for each other.

Hannibal trailed his fingers along the side of this or that building, in order to feel Paris stone rasp against his skin. Will kept his hands tucked in his coat pockets. His uplifted face was pensive, self-contained. At such moments, Hannibal found, Will had an aura of transfixing remoteness, like a ship on the horizon. Nevertheless, he was close: enough for warmth to carry in the space between their bodies.

Beyond him, the cemetery walls ran amok with ivy, a frozen ink-green wave.

"It was here, yes," Hannibal said.

"Do you remember how it happened? Show me."

During the day an ant-like stream of passengers hauled their rolling luggage across Denfert-Rochereau from metro to train station, and the visitor's line for the Catacombs wrapped around the sidewalk. Now the square was deserted, a shell laid open for perusal. A car took the roundabout, its headlights sweeping around them like search beams. Will made to step out from under the trees lining the boulevard, and Hannibal caught his arm, pulling him back into the shadow of a doorway.

"Wait," he said. Will exhaled, amused. The movement had drawn them very near to each other; the contact vibrated in Hannibal's fingertips.

Another car: the lights flashing and whirling past. The police?

"There," Hannibal said. "Do you see?"

"I see."

They watched the others exit the metro and cross the square. Roland Piche was in his mid-thirties, broad in the shoulders and waist, sallow and dark-haired. He wore a rumpled suit, and looked rather like the accountant Hannibal remembered him being. He led the way, but something about his stance suggested that he wanted to turn toward the younger man who followed him, just a step behind and to the side. Perhaps to reach out.

The latter was slim, with a dancer's poise, and sharp-boned, arresting features – enough years had passed that Hannibal barely considered them his own. He gazed straight ahead as he walked; he could have been a student out on the town. Hannibal watched Will's eyes tick, fascinated, over the details: mussed blond hair, good shoes, scarf, a jacket the colour of oxblood.

"They look human," Will said. "You look human."

"Do you find that strange?"

"I was curious how you see yourself, that's all. How did you find him?"

"In a nightclub."

Will laughed, a sharp, delighted sound.

"Another lifetime," Hannibal said. He sounded prim even to his own ears.

 "I suppose."

The shadows crossed to the sidewalk before them, substantial and oblivious, and stopped at the cast-iron-and-glass gate of an apartment complex. Will waited until they entered before approaching, glancing at the plate to memorize the number. A policeman's habit.

"Shall we go up?" he asked.

"Only if you care to." But even as Hannibal spoke the street began to dissolve in response to Will's curiosity, a darkness blotting out lamps and stars alike. Hannibal felt the room around them take form, still incipient, as he had annexed it long ago to memory: little cages stacked to and hanging from the ceiling, glass eyes gleaming from withered sockets, claws chittering on straw and wood and metal. An animal stench as heavy as incense.

The birds could not sing. But the hum of their tiny, overlapping heartbeats had filled the air.

He reined back the memory, leaving himself and Will in near-darkness. He disliked the room's lighting: at the time he'd found it brutally unflattering.

"I care to understand," Will said. "That's all." He looked at his feet, where a little bit of illumination had pooled. It showed parquet, splattered with something soft and translucent, like candle wax.

"You do your best to bear witness. I know."

"Is that what you were trying to do as well? I can't imagine it was altruism."

"All I knew was that he wanted to kill me. I felt his desire. I had to see what would happen."

"Were you looking for him?"

"Hardly."

Will's eyes flickered up to meet his, and caught. The blue there nearly black, like the night sea.

"Were you looking for me?"

"You weren't—"

Words failed him, suddenly. The curve of Will's mouth took on a sweet, mocking lift.

"I didn't exist for you then, Doctor Lecter. Isn't that strange? But it doesn't matter. I'm here now; you know what to do."

He stepped back from the light, putting a few inches of space between them. Hannibal felt the wood of the knife handle in his palm. The feather weight of the blade.

"Will," he said, "don't," and the darkness around them thinned, became flat and transparent like paper held up to a lamp. The white noise of flight was in his ears and Bedelia's hand was on his wrist, light but firm, intended to ground. He knew her scent before conscious thought returned.

He opened his eyes. The flight attendant was staring. When she saw he was awake she smiled in quick acknowledgement and turned away.  The businessman across the aisle had also glanced over, but returned his attention to his laptop, incurious.

Bedelia was watching him, her professional judgement carefully suspended. He didn't ask what he'd said in his sleep, what it sounded like.

 

_On Rue Froideveaux: Pieces of Memory_

* * *

 

Early in the day, Square Victor Hugo was awash in broad, background impressions: exhaust fumes, fountain water, wine dregs from the overflowing recycling deposit, fresh baking, sycamores, rain—

Hannibal stepped out of the pharmacy, bag in hand, into a sharply familiar scent. He looked down and met the mournful black eyes of a bulldog pup: a sort of plush, velvety roll on stubby sofa claws, nearly as wide as it was long. True to the spirit of the 16e Arrondissement, it was collared but unleashed. It gazed back at him for a long moment, then turned its head away, squatted, and piddled on the pavement at his feet.

A whistle, a single firm note. Something inside Hannibal stilled, at the same time as the dog's ears perked. It straightened, trotted a few steps, and stopped again.

" _Viens,_ " said the man on the corner. He was neatly dressed in a grey coat, not too tall, dark-haired. " _Hâte-toi, on traverse._ " The words and mild tone might have been directed at a dawdling child, not a pet. The dog huffed and toddled after the man, who turned and crossed the street without glancing back. He had not noticed Hannibal at all.

Hannibal stood there for a moment longer, until the physical textures of the morning reasserted themselves, settling into place as constituents of objective reality. Then he went on his way.

 

* * *

 

The hand soap in the rented apartment was surdosed with amyl salicylate; a soliflore of artificial musk. It was astonishing, if not commendable. He replaced it on his pharmacy run, and spent the rest of the morning adjusting his appearance.

Bedelia knocked at ten exactly, as agreed. Her eyebrows arched when he opened the door.

"Good morning," she said.

"Good morning," he agreed. He took a half step back, freeing the doorway, but she didn't venture into his space. Instead she took advantage of the distance to look him over. Hannibal allowed the scrutiny, patiently. He respected Bedelia's taste.

"It's well-tailored," she said. "Albeit to a different pattern."

"Tailoring can be informed by creativity."

"The choice," Bedelia said, her voice lilting lower as she tested the thought, "of what to dissimulate – and what to reveal."

She smiled.

"How would you define what you're revealing, Hannibal?"

(Bedelia was wearing slim trousers, a soft, round-collared blouse, an Hermès scarf artfully draped about her shoulders. Touches of Van Cleef & Arpels First at throat and wrists – not the perfume she'd left him, but similar. It was casually romantic: as if the outfit might be completed by a straw boater.)

"The desire to start anew," he said. "To raze old codes and assumptions."

"Desire begets action. Action... destabilizes us, and we stumble onward until we attain some semblance of equilibrium again. Regardless of whether we attain what was originally desired."

"Evolution implies a level of uncertainty."

"I've always admired your optimism," Bedelia said, drily. "On that note: there's an exhibition of drawings from the Musée d'Orsay collection at the Orangerie, and a Jane Marceau retrospective at the Petit Palais. Shall I meet you at seven, for dinner?"

The whim took Hannibal, suddenly, to accompany her – and further still, to revisit the collections of his mind palace in their original settings, despite the indignity of queues and tourists. The Musée d'Orsay held Puvis de Chavannes' _Hope,_ smaller than Baltimore's but in Hannibal's mind the original, and his Saint Sebastian; at Centre Pompidou, Soutine's bloodied beef carcasses and plucked birds – not morbid, like Hirst's jejune transgressions, yet far from abstract – innocently lovely even in putrescence, as if to say: here, see, this flesh, food for worms and Man and the worm that is God also, it too partakes of the essence of stars...

And Jane Marceau. Red thread, white wax. _Little bird._

It was inadvisable. More Americans thronged the Pompidou than any other square metre of Paris, with the exception, perhaps, of the lookout of the Eiffel Tower.

" _Je ferai mes emplettes,_ " he told Bedelia. She smiled at him again, briefly, but genuinely enough. Almost as if they had been friends, and she had been unafraid.

 

* * *

 

The concierge's name, or at any rate appellation, was Monsieur Stéphane – Stefano in Rome, where long ago Hannibal had made his acquaintance, in the domicile of a principessa. He was bespectacled, with a full head of chestnut hair, and a face neither young nor old. The motion of his hands was accompanied by a subtle waft of orris root powder. He spoke courteously, with an air of grave calm.

Yes, he received the earlier message. Yes, Madame can be accommodated without problem. He had taken the liberty of expediting the usual processes; she would, however, need to remain in Paris for the next two days. Monsieur's documents and purchases were meanwhile in order. The house would be ready. In the event that Monsieur desired further discretion – the man's gaze flickered across Hannibal's features, his own as placid as a still pond – arrangements could be made. At a private hospital centre just outside of Prague, for instance.

To Monsieur Stéphane, Hannibal assumed, he was Simonetta Sforza's heir. Perhaps Murasaki's ward, as well; though it was unlikely his aunt was interested in his doings. No doubt the concierge had a sense of the Baltic aristocracy that the Great Wars had dissipated like smoke, but such considerations carried lesser weight.

To his own mind, Hannibal was not the most objectionable scion of the bloodlines that converged in his veins. A family required both glory and infamy to be worthy of historical interest.

"I will consider it," Hannibal told him. "You have my thanks."

The other man inclined his head. "The key, Monsieur?"

Hannibal slid it over, across the desk: a nondescript modern object designed for a bank safety box. The key Stéphane used to open the metal case he'd carried with him was older, beautifully ornate. Stéphane guarded many like it, that allowed entry to secluded gardens and vaults and other, less physical secrets. For years he had held the key to the front gate of Lecter Manor.

"Your Spyderco Endura," he said, "Japanese VG-10 Damascus steel with _suminagashi_ finish, blue jigged-bone scale handle. And your papers. Please, verify that everything is to your satisfaction. Would Monsieur prefer to return by the underground route?"

 

* * *

 

There were dozens of entrances to the cave systems under Paris: wine cellars, secret stairwells, forgotten Resistance shelters... hundreds of kilometres of old quarry tunnels and catacombs and buried waterways, pulsing and ebbing with rainfall, like the vessels that carry lymph and blood under human skin. Once they had been as necessary and familiar to Hannibal as the grand boulevards above ground. He fancied his memory remained serviceable now.

Stéphane's entry point – undramatic as the man himself – was a service elevator to a basement parking level, and a blank sheet-metal door. A long flight of slate steps, and then another, older, door, this one left unlocked. Hannibal descended, and the clean mineral scent of groundwater rose to meet him.

Flickering sodium illumination. Enclosed wall sconces.

Hannibal walked on. He kept his own mental count of crossroads and turns. Eventually the tunnel lights dimmed, and he switched on the hand torch Stéphane had provided.

A winding kilometre or more, and the ceiling yawned upward above him: the unnatural, bell-like arch of an old sinkhole, reinforced with cement by the Inspection des Carrières. In the eighteenth century it would have swallowed carts on the street, an entire house without warning. Perhaps a church – yet another of God's laboured witticisms.

The man-made cavern was a meeting place of several corridors. The effect was that of a hive-like space, a mesh of sandstone pillars and hollows and steel grilles. Water dripped, calcareous, down the walls, and ran along the floor. Every sound echoed, magnified.

_Arrête. C'est ici l'empire de la Mort._

Hannibal turned off his hand torch. Instantly the darkness was blinding. He took a step to the side, so his back was against stone.

"I would not have imagined Stéphane to be indiscreet," he said, pitching his voice to carry. Under cover of the words he stepped out of his shoes, onto the wet gravel in his socks. The cold was bracing.

Low laughter bounced off the walls. It seemed to come from directly ahead; but he could not be sure.

"I have followed you," the voice said. Male, distorted by echoes. "I see you. I name what you are: Tempter, Fallen One. Adversary. Dragon and devourer of all."

"Flattering." He moved silently now, crouching, keeping to the wall. Sight was useless, hearing compromised. But he had caught the scent now: a feverish, adrenal spoor, rapidly closing in. Sweat, canvas, metal. Hard to tell if it would be a gun or a more silent, close-range weapon.

He took the Endura from his jacket pocket and opened it one-handed. The balance was blessedly familiar. It was not a fighting knife, but it would do.

"You will not leave this place," said the voice. Further, then closer again, circling. The motion was too precise, too well-centered on Hannibal's position. "Angels will cast you down; you will be sealed in the bowels of the earth."

"Is that what you are? An angel? Tell me, have I sinned? I have followed only the example of God."

Silence. Not even breathing. Infrared goggles, Hannibal thought – military equipment. Therein lay the other's advantage.

The blow, when it came, was just as precise, targeting his carotid. Hannibal felt the disturbance in the air and twisted aside. The blade opened a line of white heat across his shoulder. A bowie knife or small machete; a slashing rather than a piercing tool. He struck with his own weapon, aiming for the femoral, and did not connect. Gravel skittered to his right.

"Liar. Fallen One. I see you now; I have no fear of you. For pride you are condemned to eternal fire."

Hannibal said nothing in return. He stilled himself and closed his eyes.

This time, when the attack came, he blocked – the blade glanced off the Endura and scored across his forearm, trivially – twisted, and kicked out. They both hit the ground, the other's knife with a welcome clatter. Hannibal rolled to free himself, and could not. His opponent kneed him in the belly, and he gasped. Hands clutched at his throat and squeezed. Hannibal reversed his grip and carved upward, into blossoming, wet heat.

The angel howled.

After a long while the sounds became gurgling, then ceased. Hannibal crouched, pulling at skin and slippery layers of muscle and pericardia. He was dimly aware, as a painter might be of the movement of light across his subject, that he had laid his prize open from belly to sternum. But he could not field dress it in darkness. In any case he must have perforated the stomach with the initial evisceration, or the intestines; the meat would not be clean.

In his mind there was the image of Abigail Hobbs, silent, small and luminous as an icon. The jewel-like blood on her hands, outstretched. The air was sweet and damp with the scent of it.

"How must an angel taste?" Will asked. "Or a saint? Have you ever wondered, Doctor Lecter?"

He sounded very close, in the dark. Hannibal did not answer or reach out.

It took some time to find the torch again. He switched it on and looked at the face of the dead, but it told him nothing. The man was in his mid-twenties, with olive skin and cropped hair, dressed in military fatigues. Under the goggles, his grey eyes were already glaucous.

Gold flashed at his throat.  Hannibal lifted the chain with the point of the Endura. It was a pendant, made of the same tinny gilded material as an ex-voto: Saint Michael Archangel, bright-winged, sword in hand, the beast-dragon's twisting figure at its feet.

 

* * *

 

The bulldog pup sat in the side street, by the building's service entrance. 

Hannibal hesitated, glancing around, but the man from earlier did not appear around a corner, or – absurdly – from behind the bins. The sidewalk was, for the moment, deserted. The lowering sun shone through the arcing plumes of the fountain at the centre of the square, dyeing them vermilion and rose. Soon it would be dark.

The dog watched him, unperturbed and pensive. It did not bark or whine. Eventually it toddled a few steps closer, so that it could sniff at Hannibal's fingers, and lick the edge of his thumb where there were still lingering traces of blood.

 

* * *

 

Bedelia was at the table of their apartment's shared kitchenette, straight-backed and composed, when Hannibal emerged again from the shower. Before her sat a bottle of Tavel and two glasses, one of which was half full. The bulldog pup lolled by her feet. As Hannibal watched, he began to nibble on the strap of her sandal, and she nudged him away gently.

"He has an owner," he said. "I saw them this morning. I suppose he must have run away and become lost."

Bedelia poured a second glass, three-quarters full, and slid it a few inches across the table. Hannibal sat, and drank. It tasted like the heart of a _rose Jacqueminot_. He was seized, suddenly and vividly, by a sense-memory of Murasaki's perfume.

"You're having a mid-life crisis," Bedelia said. "It's banal."

"Is it?" Hannibal swirled the glass, gazing into its rose-red depth. "Perhaps you're right. I should bow to convention and purchase a motorcycle."

"Triumph Bonneville," said Bedelia. Hannibal looked at her. "You respond to the romantic spirit of British motoring."

It was not untrue. "Was it the Musée d'Orsay? Or the Petit Palais?"

Bedelia lifted her eyebrows, but did not call him on the change of subject. "It was Jane Marceau," she said. "Open-ended, for a career retrospective. But then she's still quite young."

"How was the work?" He wondered if the artist had been present. Most likely not, now that the new piece was complete. Or terminated, rather.

"Obsessive. Hallucinatory. There was..." Bedelia paused, selecting her words for precision. "A suspended sphere in a mirrored room, covered in a multitude of wings, inside and out. Taxidermied, I believe – dappled things that had belonged to doves and finches. It was hollow, large enough to hold a child."

"But the shell was broken," Hannibal murmured. "Was it not?" Bedelia looked at him sharply, but did not answer the question.

"I was struck by the use of multiplicity," she said, "and intensification. Reminiscent of Yayoi Kusama, but Kusama's works are affirmative. She asserts the absolute existence of her visions. Marceau is process-driven: her forms seem on the verge of wilful dissolution."

"She reifies to destroy," said Hannibal.

"An exorcism or a sacrifice. Not propitiatory, but..."

"An invitation to dialogue," said Hannibal, "in the antique and hierophantic sense. Abraham puts the knife to Isaac's throat and imagines that God might answer."

"And so He did," Bedelia said, softly. "In the story."

Hannibal visualized, with the precision and vividness of experience, the haptic sensation of Bedelia's neck snapping under his hands. A moment of work, and she would simply cease to be present. The thought came and passed, a fleeting nothing.

"You won't die from this, Hannibal," said Bedelia. "Nothing has killed you yet."

"Not for lack of trying," he said.

"I'm speaking in metaphor, I'm afraid. You recognize your desire to evolve. Yet evolution operates on the masses, via death, and chance; the individual expresses but does not become. You rupture the seams of your person suit and find it is not a chrysalis. And as you will not allow for your own destruction, you'll have to go on living with what you've done. As well as with what has been done to you."

"Is that all?" said Hannibal.

"I mentioned it was banal."

"You suggest I'll find the future unsustainable." The word echoed in his head in Will's voice.

Bedelia took a sip of wine. "We all die, Hannibal," she said, "often before we cease to breathe. I suggest only that you give full consideration to what comes afterward."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loosely borrowed Stéphane/Stefano from Paolo Sorrentino's _La grande belezza_ , which is also a ravishingly-filmed story about an aesthetically-minded European asshole having a late mid-life crisis. It's worth a watch.
> 
>  _Viens, hâte-toi, on traverse:_ "Come on, hurry up, we're crossing."  
>  _Je ferai mes emplettes:_ "I'll get my shopping done."  
>  _Arrête. C'est ici l'empire de la Mort:_ "Stop. This is Death's empire." (The sign at the public underground entrance to the Catacombs, which -- to be precise -- Hannibal is thinking of, rather than being at that location.)
> 
> What's not blatantly fictional in this chapter exists as described, including the dog, who is a Real Dog Of The Sixteenth Arrondissement.


	4. Sugar Loaf Key/Memphis

**_Present day_ **

Clarice's phone woke her in the darkness. She fumbled, sitting up. The fat bulldog named Marius lifted his head from her thigh with a whine.

"Starling."

"I need you back here," Crawford said. "Where are you?"

"About forty minutes drive from Key West. Um." She pulled the elastic band out of her ponytail and ran her fingers through her hair. "I'm not sure there's an address."

Jack paused, but his phone voice didn't give away much. "Is he coming with you?"

She'd passed out on Graham's couch in a pile of case file documents and dogs (six or seven of them, large and astoundingly ugly for the most part, with a litter resemblance). Now there was a blanket pulled over her legs, and the dogs had disappeared except for Marius. Graham was nowhere to be seen. "I think so. Yes."

"There'll be a chopper for you at Key West in an hour. Starling. Chilton brokered a separate deal between Lecter and Senator Martin. The Senator's offered a deal to transfer him into Tennessee, to an institution that meets with his conditions. They're getting ready to move him from the BSHCI. He says he'll only give her the information in person, once they've signed the papers. We'll have SWAT teams on the move as soon as we get the word."

Clarice thought hard, and quickly. Jack seemed to be saying her assignment was over. But he was sending a chopper. "What about the Marceau angle?"

"We'll talk about that. Key West Airport, sixty minutes. Make sure you bring Graham."

He hung up. At the same time the light in the little cabin came on. She looked up and saw Graham at the door. He'd put on real clothes and looked more sober than before, which was another qualified success.

"I dropped the dogs off with the neighbours," he said. "Was that Jack?"

"He's got a chopper waiting for us at Key West," said Clarice. "I'll tell you the rest on the way. What about this guy?"

"He's coming with me," said Graham. Marius nosed at his hand, and he caressed the dog's muzzle absently. "He has a tendency to run, otherwise."

Clarice drove her rental sedan. Marius sat in the back, where he promptly stuck his head out the window with his tongue lolling in the wind. Graham huddled tensely in the passenger seat. His overnighter bag had looked like it held maybe two changes of clothing, but he'd filled the trunk with a fortnight's worth of kibble.

Clarice explained Jack's message. Graham said nothing, only wound himself up tighter, like a clock spring.

"You don't like it," she said, when his distress was too evident not to acknowledge. Graham made a noise that resembled a laugh.

"You could say that," he said.

"Lecter'll have to hold up his end of the deal. If he doesn't he'll be back where he started."

"Will he?" said Graham. He ran a hand over his face. "It'll be, ah. A nice vacation for him. A break from the usual. Go down to Memphis, see the sights, talk to the locals. He's very interested in _people._ I imagine you've realized that."

"You're not pissed off at me," said Clarice. "I thought you were at first, but you're not. So I figure you're pissed off at Jack, I just happen to be in this car."

Graham looked out the window. "He shouldn't have sent you to Hannibal Lecter."

"I understand why Jack did it. And I had a choice. I took the assignment."

"Of course you did."

"Don't," said Clarice, "take that for granted."

There was a silence. The overseas highway unspooled before their high beams, a grey ribbon of tarmac bisecting an infinite blue-black expanse. Pinpricks of light on the horizon – houses, possibly, or fishing boats. Clarice stepped on the gas.

"Jack likes this deal as much as I do," said Graham, "that's why we're being pulled in. To work the fallback."

Clarice heard the _we_ but didn't call it out. "We had someone on it before I came down," she said instead. "Most likely they've found her already."

"Finding's not the problem, time is. She's not an American citizen." Graham slumped lower in his seat. "What you have is a killer who may have found inspiration in the work of an international artist, for reasons of his own. He's obsessed with transformation. I couldn't implicate her then and there's barely a connection now. Miguel Diaz had a very specific victim profile, and it's not this."

"But she talked to you," Clarice said.

"Yeah. She was probably curious."

"Can I ask a question?"

Graham shrugged.

"Did Dr. Lecter tell you about her?"

Graham was silent for a moment. "No," he said, finally. "But I assume he wanted me to find out. Like everything else in that file, really."

"There's a pattern to the women in his file," said Clarice. "Young women. The sister--"

"Right," Graham said, "the sister. She would have been clever, wouldn't she? A really smart girl. Fearless, like him. Always up for an adventure, getting herself into the kind of trouble that big brother has to bail her out of. Maybe she should have stayed put in the basement, if she knew what was good for her."

"Christ, Will."

"What I'm trying to say is, you don't want Hannibal Lecter to think of you as _family_."

Something in his voice rang like grief. He'd been married, Clarice remembered. Step-child. That was evidently done with. No immediate relatives. Maybe no friends, if Price – whose social radar might charitably be described as rudimental – could be believed. _Katz liked him, though,_ Price had said. _Said he wasn't any more or less of a weirdo than the rest of us._

That had been four whiskeys in. Clarice had learnt it took a minimum of three before either Beverley Katz or Will Graham was referenced in conversation. Lecter had killed Beverley Katz, too.

The Quantico rumours about Graham and Lecter were long-running and sensational. Clarice had had no truck with most of them: the verifiable facts were lurid enough. Now that she'd spoken to both, though, she understood viscerally that there had been _something._ Could see how it had come about, which worried her. Will Graham did not give off the same sense of monstrous self-sufficiency as Lecter did, but he was as cripplingly isolated. Precedent was unclear as to which one would crack first.

"Will," she said, "if it comes down to it, I'll talk to Dr. Lecter. He doesn't need to know you're involved. He finds me a little bit interesting, that's all there is to it. He can't do anything to me. You realize that, don't you?"

"A little bit interesting," Will echoed, after a moment. His intonation so suddenly resembled Lecter's that it prickled down Clarice's back. "Are you... trying to _protect_ me, Clarice?"

He didn't sound like he liked the idea.

"I'm saying no one has to protect anyone," said Clarice. "You're doing us a favour; don't be a goddamned martyr to the cause. I'll do my job, Jack'll do his, and whether Lecter talks or not we'll catch the bastard."

It came out a lot more certain than she felt. For a long second she wasn't sure whether he would take the bait. Then Graham sighed, and she felt tension leech from him. Not completely, not by a long shot; but better than nothing.

"How long have you spent on this case?" he said. "Three weeks? Four? You're going to be held back a cycle, if this goes on."

Clarice had thought about it. Extensively. When she did the televised image of Catherine Martin came to her: playing with her family, carefree, on the riverbank. "I'll cross that bridge when I get to it."

"Don't be a martyr to the cause, huh?"

"Do as I say, not as I do," she said. Felt him smile, which hadn't happened yet.

 

* * *

 

They talked about the investigation, until the helicopter noise made it impossible. Graham had looked at the photos of the girls, back at the cabin; Clarice had stayed quiet, given him space, but there had been nothing to see. No psychic convulsions. Graham had looked tired and said: "This is a complex project. It's not his first, but it's special, life-changing – the best he's come up with in a long while. The women… the women aren't..."

He'd stood up, paced around in a tight circle.

"I'm no good at this," he'd said, abruptly. "Wrong mindset. I'm going for a walk."

That was when he'd disappeared, leaving the pack of dogs to keep her company. Clarice had been vaguely let down, which in turn had surprised and irritated her: on some well-squashed level, she had expected the magic dinner show of Quantico legend.

As if any part of this assignment would be that easy.

Graham pulled himself together, though, in the car: he articulated ideas in struggling bursts, but sensibly. The women weren't individuals, he said. Not people. Sometimes there was a sexual compulsion, even romantic, in a killer's actions, twisted as they might be; that was not Buffalo Bill's case. But paradoxically, ideally, he saw his victims as women. It was the messy stuff of their femininity itself that he was after – something more essential than raw flesh. Graham did not understand how, through the act of killing and skinning, Bill acquired what he needed to paint the abstraction. He was missing a step, he said, with a humourless laugh. But he did not offer to look at the pictures again.

They didn't discuss what would happen if Catherine were not found – whether, in the event they retrieved her body from the river, Graham would go down to the scene and look.

The détente lasted until they got off the helicopter at Quantico. Jack was on the tarmac to meet them, dark coat whipping in the wind from the rotary blades. Insofar as Clarice could see his expression under the floodlights' glare, he looked grim.

"Will," he said. "It's good to see you."

"Hello, Jack," Will said, evenly. He was holding Marius on a shortened leash. Jack glanced at the dog, and for some reason looked grimmer.

"Come down to the lab," he said. "Price wants to see you, and then we'll get you caught up. We found Marceau in L.A."

"I _am_ caught up," Will said, "thanks to _Special_ Agent Starling."

He wasn't looking at either of them as he said it. Jack stared at him for a moment, then turned and looked at Clarice. Clarice met his eyes and saw inscrutability descend over his face like a shutter.

"Good job, Starling," he said. "Go back to the dorm. Get some sleep while you can. Call my office in the morning."

 

* * *

 

"So he _is_ an asshole," said Ardelia. "Prime grade. Triple A. All American."

"It's not even that," Clarice said. "Assholes are a cheap plentiful commodity. I'm just pissed I didn't see it coming." She thumbed at her phone – the photo of Jane Marceau's caged moth installation, back to Crawford's office contact, back—

"You think Graham outright doesn't want you on the case?"

"I think he's off giving Jack Crawford shit about Miriam Lass. And Beverley Katz, because we're interchangeable action girl figurines and history is bound to repeat itself. Christ, I thought Price was bad."

—To call history. There was an outbound that she had not made: Doctor Chilton's office line, at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

Clarice stared.

7:43PM to 8:01PM.

Jack's call was timestamped 8:45.

"Son of a bitch," she said aloud. Ardelia raised an eyebrow.

"Graham, Crawford, Lecter, or the dog? I assume that last one goes without saying."

Clarice shook her head. Graham had _known_ – no. Chilton hadn't told him about the deal. Chilton would have put the call through, probably recorded the entire conversation, confident that Lecter wouldn't give up his leverage now – not even to Will Graham. And if Graham had ferreted out anything about Buffalo Bill he wouldn't have kept it back. She could judge him well enough, she thought, to be sure of that.

Maybe it wasn't about Bill. What was it Graham had said? Lecter hadn't told him about Marceau. _But I assume he wanted me to find out._

One last chance to ask.

_Jesus, Graham, you hot mess._

One last chance—

"Back to the office?" Ardelia said.

"No." On her feet, shrugging into her jacket. "Memphis."

" _Lecter?_ "

Intuition had outrun the chain of logic and arrived at conviction. "This whole setup stinks," said Clarice. "I don't know why. But if we don't get Lecter talking now that door is going to close."

Five minutes later she was in her car and flooring it back to Dulles.

 

* * *

 

Chilton got in Will's face as soon as he walked through the front door of the Shelby County Courthouse. He was white as a sheet, the scars standing out in red-livid blotches, and shaking: "What did you say to him? Graham! What the hell did you say!"

Jack looked at him sharply. Will brushed past Chilton and let him intercept Jack instead. Jack knew as well as Will did that Hannibal would have tried to escape the moment opportunity was afforded to him; Will's call could not conceivably have made a difference. It was why Starling's deal had been fake. Chilton had outsmarted himself, as always – invariably just intelligent enough to learn from the last mistake.

Chilton must have wanted it, Will thought. He didn't know it but on some level he must have. All the time Will had spent in a haze of whiskey, sun, and regret, Chilton and Lecter had been locked in the BSHCI, together. It must have worn both down. Years of that and even the deferred death sentence of Hannibal's freedom might have been preferable, so long as it ended with release.

Will himself was beyond fatigue, as bleached bones were beyond decay. And he was not sure what he wanted.

It was a shock to step again into a space Hannibal had made his own. Like being chilled and sinking into a bath just this side of too hot. Will had readied himself, clear-eyed, for the sensation to be pleasurable, but he was conscious of an unexpected melancholy. Something about the shape of the room – its two-storey height, the wood floor, the way the eye was drawn toward the cage at its centre, and what were surely Hannibal's chair and his little table – reminded him of the Baltimore office, a lifetime ago. But there were no books here, no framed prints and etchings, no carefully selected furniture. Hannibal had come down in the world, and he had had to make do.

There was the angel, strung up as Eliot Budish once had done: an ironic little quolibet of a prayer. There was the drying stain where he'd lain, disguised. The rest was theatre in the round, celebration, indulgence, the stands milling now with indifferent or horrified spectators like the Lyric Opera House's bar at intermission. Will bypassed them and approached the stage. The door swung open; he stepped over the threshold without hesitation.

The pendulum swung, gold in darkness.

"Thank you for calling ahead of your visit, Will," Hannibal said. He sat at the table with his back turned, drawing – Will could hear a soft marker tip move across paper – the way he used to in the firelight. "As I said, I appreciate the courtesy."

"I wasn't going to come," Will said.

"Liar," Hannibal said, simply. Will heard the smile in his voice, and closed his eyes.

"There was nothing I could have offered you," he said. "Not placed against this. You knew this would happen."

"I knew there would be opportunity, yes. Hence that it might be the last time you and I would speak. And Buffalo Bill, I think, is not for you. But as usual you underestimate yourself. We have passed through the natural end of the narrative: my infamy has grown beyond me, as your legacy is beyond you. Yet some fragment of our original selves remain."

"Barely alive," Will said. "Just the apparatus of flesh, hanging on out of inertia."

"I think there is more. It was posited to me, once, that we die before we cease to breathe; but that this was all the more reason to consider the thereafter. From here on all is uncertain, and uncertainty should be celebrated. Should you continue to evolve... I confess my devotion to the pleasure principle has only deepened with time. You have been one of the great pleasures of my life, Will Graham. I prefer to dwell on that over the pain."

"A token," Will said, "of your appreciation."

"If I have left one," Hannibal said, "it could only be here."

Reality reasserted itself. Will snapped on gloves and sorted rapidly through the artifacts on the table – tray and remnants of the meal, mp3 player, marker pens, drawings. There was a view of Florence, the Duomo clearly visible; and there, another, of a grand turreted house that seemed vaguely familiar. The trees surrounding it were dark, looming masses, blocking out the sky, but its windows blazed with light.

The third drawing was a half-length portrait of a young woman, facing the viewer, a lamb by her side; bearing in her hands a palm frond like a standard. Will recognized the iconography as that of Saint Agnes of Rome. He knew the face, too, and the direct clear gaze.

Saint Agnes, blessed martyr.

_Buffalo Bill, I think, is not for you._

He whirled, paper in hand, and met Jack's eyes from across the room. His voice over-loud.

"Where's Clarice Starling? _Where is she now!_ "

 


	5. Montreal

ELLEN MUIR: Tell me about _The Weight of the World and its Heaven._ How did you arrive at the concept for the piece?

ANDREI HAMADA: I watched a lot of coverage around the Catherine Martin kidnapping, before and after her rescue. 60 Minutes, tabloid blog BS, all those "inside the mind of a killer" special investigative segments – no offense. [laughs] I was pretty obsessed with it. It was really the story of these two girls, if you think about it: Catherine Martin and Clarice Starling. One of them kidnapped, stuck down a well, going through this insane ordeal, and the other one who's – not an FBI agent even—

ELLEN MUIR: A trainee. At the time.

ANDREI HAMADA: Yes. And she's the one who solves the case! With the help of Hannibal fucking Lecter! So the FBI says thank you love, the SWAT teams have got it from here, you go _there_ and tie up some loose ends for the report, and she's the one to walk into Buffalo Bill's house and put four bullets in his chest. [gestures] Bam-bam-bam. Bam. Like she had God on her side. The Joan of Arc of behavioural profiling.

Anyway. Once they started documenting what was inside that house… that got to me. The thing that struck me was that Buffalo Bill – Jame Gumb – he thought he was an artist. That was the first thing.

ELLEN MUIR: He had all these moodboards.

ANDREI HAMADA: Exactly! It was like fashion school, what he was doing. It was a senior year thesis project. You had Ed Gein with his folksy shrunken heads—

EM: The classic naive outsider.

AH: Artists love transgression. We get off on the idea that we're supposed to play that social role. Get naked in the gallery, slice up a cow – Hirst released a statement during Hannibal Lecter's trial, after those details came out. At the end of the day, though: we, inclusive of me, want our work to be seen, and we don't want to get arrested. [laughs] And that's not hypocrisy, it's human beings drawing a line. Obviously I don't disagree with the line. The hypocrisy would be pretending it doesn't exist. But I was fascinated with the idea that these killers were taking a direct path to self-expression. Like why be Cindy Sherman and play around with fake props? Why be Serrano and wait for John Does to roll into the morgue? Make your own John Doe! Control the process!

EM: There's a quote I found recently, in Lawrence Durrell's _Alexandria Quartet_.

AH: Shoot.

EM: One of his characters says: "Bad art is what rapes the emotion of the audience without providing value." And the synonym he gives for this is "effectiveness." Bad art is highly effective.

AH: That's interesting. You know what he means.

EM: Would you say Jame Gumb was effective?

AH: He might be, in a movie.

EM: What about Hannibal Lecter?

AH: He was better than effective, sometimes. But what I liked were the dinner performances – the oral history of the performances. The more domestic the better. "Glossy stew," all that comedic unease. Over-the-top 16th-century Flemish _nature mortes_ , like if Sam Taylor-Wood had served the hare with the pelt on: _do I eat this? Do I watch it decompose?_ I didn't like his Ripper installations, those were self-aggrandizing bombastic bullshit. Though I should keep my mouth shut, since he's still out there and he reads his press. [laughs]

EM: Off the record, then. [laughs]

AM: But, you know, assume axiomatically that Durrell's right, _and_ that there's no value to what Lecter or Gumb did to their victims, it's horrifying and purely detrimental. Why, then, do I feel Lecter's _first-rate_ and Gumb _second-rate?_ You get what I mean? That operation of taste?

EM: Hence—

AH: The piece. _The Weight of the World and its Heaven_. Which of course was immediately interpreted as a satire on the gallery system, on the art world. Late Capitalism dismembering its victims, _ceci n'est pas un crime scene,_ et cetera. But the inspiration was naive. I was the critic. I was looking at these reconstructions from the media and asking myself: what are its formalist elements? Does it belong to a school of thought, a scene, a context? Is it critique? Is it self-expressive? What, in the artist's environment, is it responding to? And if that seems cold, the process wasn't. I had nightmares.

EM: Would you say you were profiling them?

AH: Not in the least. It was a completely fanciful paradigm. [laughs] I'm an artist, I make shit up. I don't instinctively think in terms of _helping the police_.

EM: So that was never the intent? You didn't actually think Jame Gumb situated himself in creative dialogue with, say, Cindy Sherman?

AH: Oh, no, I did. Factually, I think he did. He was delusional. And these guys exchanged ideas, for a given value of "exchange." Francis Dolarhyde, you know the Tooth Fairy, he was inspired by Lecter, who himself did that entire copycat series after Garrett Jacob Hobbs… Lecter was the figurehead. He pretty much exploded, or imploded, the year before he went on the run – actually he was a lot more interesting once he retired the Chesapeake Ripper persona. …Are we going to talk about Will Graham?

EM: Insofar as he became a central figure in your work, yes.

AH: Oh, Christ. [laughs] A central figure… Well, I had this theory about Graham, at the time: Lecter thought he'd met either John Ruskin or Lizzie Siddal, he just didn't know which it was.

EM: Are you sure the framework isn't satirical?

AH: I didn't say it wasn't. Once shit hit the fan and the FBI showed up, I got very serious about the piece being non-serious.

EM: That's when you met with Agent Starling.

AH: Yes, I did. The _ángel arcabucero_ herself. And that was interesting, because she understood. She understood immediately.

 

–Andrei Hamada, artist, video interview conducted and transcribed by Ellen Muir (unreleased notes)

 

* * *

**_Four years earlier_ **

"Please," said the young girl's voice, "don't let the light in."

Will let go of the door, reflexively. It swung closed, and he paused, dizzied by the transition. Outside was bright, late morning. Inside—

Cartesian perspective returned slowly. The space, he knew, was a disused factory: cavernous and high-ceiling-ed, dilapidated brick walls left intentionally bare. On the far wall were the barely-visible outlines of tall windows, blacked out with paint. The floor... there did not seem to be a floor. Only the intimation of a surface, reflective and still like dark water, across which empty wooden shipping pallets were scattered like a makeshift bridge. Below that surface was black space, extending into infinity, and the glimmer of faraway stars.

(A trick of mirrors? Of screens? Light-emitting diodes?)

From the darkness of space vast white shapes emerged. Will counted twelve: they seemed humanoid, but somehow bloated, limbs too spindly or short. Some seemed to struggle on their bellies, or to rise to all fours. Others were tall and hunched, scapulars spreading into prototypical wings. Will blinked away the memory of other, more organic sculptures.

There was a flare of yellow light, like a lighter being struck.

"Over here," said the voice. Will followed it, stepping carefully from pallet to pallet, the way he would on floor protection plates at a crime scene. The light wavered and caught, became steady.

"The vernissage is this evening," Jane Marceau said. She wore an over-large painter's smock and stood on the top rung of a stepladder, next to the statue in the farthest right corner. "I have to test this first. Is that all right?"

Will made a vague gesture of assent. The light was emanating from the statue's head, as if it were a massive candle she had set alight. Perhaps it was. With the close illumination he could tell, now, that the wax was not homogeneous. Objects were caught in it, half-exposed, like fossils in sedimentary strata – a feather, a key. His perspective shifted, and for a moment the forms were weathered sea-boulders, worn smooth and strange by littoral action. Then he saw the thick ropes of red, running beneath the surface; branching like vessels that held blood.

Where the wax had been lit it was red. Was it the wick?

"You are Will Graham, aren't you?" she said. "Gabie said you wanted to see me. Is this about Miguel Diaz?"

As Will watched a crimson trickle began to run, from the top of the statue's head, dripping along its throat; then slowing and pooling, just above its heart.

"Miguel Diaz, yes," he said. "Among others."

Jane smiled. Leant forward and blew out the light.

 

* * *

 

They emerged from the exhibition space, blinking. A young man was waiting for them, hands shoved deep into his windbreaker's pockets. He was scowling.

"I told you to call first," he said to Will.

"It's all right, Gabie," Jane said. "We're just going to have a chat. Mr. Graham can drive me to the sanctuary." She turned to Will. "You don't mind, do you?"

"I'll take you," said Gabie.

"I need you to help me clear up here," said Jane. "And do the setup for the preview. I'll be fine."

"You'll tire yourself out, Jane. It's going to run late tonight."

"I'll be fine," she repeated, and smiled at him. In the sunlight her skin was nearly translucent, with the beginning of fine lines around the eyes. "It's a good day. Don't worry."

 

* * *

 

The migratory bird sanctuary was a T-shaped, wooded peninsula, extending into the middle of the Lachine Rapids, surrounded by whitewater and a scattering of smaller, marshy islands. It was maintained as a public park, with paved paths and foot bridges and picnic areas. Masses of black-eyed susans were still in late bloom. The roar of the river was muted, but omnipresent.

"I come here every other day," said Jane, "just to walk. I like to keep the birds company. There. Do you see?"

Will looked. He saw a great blue heron, coiled in the rushes and patiently observing the water. It was hunting. As he and Jane watched the long neck darted out, snake-like, and speared something silver-glinting that wiggled. A toss of the head, and the prey was gone. The bird folded, origami-like, back into its original stillness.

"I leave at the end of the month," said Jane, "and so will they. They come here to nest and bring up their children, but they're snowbirds: in autumn they go south. They overwinter in Florida, I'm told."

"In Key West," said Will. "There's another sanctuary. I've been there."

"I've never been. But I imagine it sometimes: white sand, and the herons, and the sea like a mirror held up to the sky." She smiled. "It must be unbearably bright. I don't… enjoy light, much."

Will was silent.

"You said you had questions about Miguel," Jane said. "But that's not what you want to ask me about, is it?" She tilted her head, considering him. "You _may_ ask. It's not as hard as you think."

"How much," said Will, "do you remember of…"

"The Baby Doll Killer? The time I spent with him? Nothing." Still smiling. "I read the transcripts, after I turned eighteen, but I wouldn't be able to tell you the story now. There, you see? Easy answer."

"What's the hard answer?"

She reached out a hand to him, palm turned upward, and the long sleeve slipped a little over her wrist; he saw the silver patches of skin covering her arm. Burns so old they were hardly recognizable as scars.

"It's all still there. On me, in me – my bones are fragile. It's hard to walk. I get tired. Anyone can tell that from looking; though they don't usually pay attention. But you do, don't you? You see it clear as day."

"I see it," said Will. He looked at her, again to make sure, and a sense of desolation settled over him. "I saw it in your work."

"Yes."

"The world he made visible is the world you see."

"Yes. Don't apologize."

"I wasn't going to."

"Don't say _I'm sorry_ because you feel bad for me, I mean." She looked away, over the water. "I'm not unhappy to be different. I make a lot of money, you know. And I do only what I want to do; only what comes naturally to me."

"Only the easy answers," Will said.

"Yes. But you don't trust easy answers, do you, Mr. Graham? Tell me what you know about Miguel."

"He was your assistant," Will said. "He helped you execute your installations, when the physical exertion involved was too demanding. He'd been with you for two years; he'd served briefly in the military, and at one time was a street artist in New York. Immediately before he met you, he'd voluntarily committed himself to a psychiatric facility, and was released eighteen months later. He had no immediate family.

"The two of you were in Paris, opening an exhibition, the week that he died. He was… cut open, put on display in a disused area of the Catacombs, and found three days later. Law enforcement now attributes the murder to Dr. Hannibal Lecter – the Chesapeake Ripper – whom the FBI and Interpol believe originally escaped to Paris from Baltimore. But no organs were taken from the body, and the mutilations were summary."

"Do you believe it was him?" The little-girl voice was low, dreamy.

"I do, yes. But not that the murder was planned. I believe Lecter was attacked."

"By Miguel?"

"A man named Paul Brody was murdered in his apartment, in Queens, in November 2012. His throat had been cut, and the body partially burned. A note was left suggesting gangland retribution. Hair and personal items of three missing girls were discovered among his belongings. Miguel Diaz was working with you in Brooklyn at the time, on a artistic residency.

"Geneva, June 2013: the body of one Lucian Junker was found after a house fire. His death was classified as a homicide, identical modus operandi. He'd been investigated in connection with the rape and murder of a vacationing hiker, but had been released for lack of evidence. You were in Switzerland, attending the Art Basel show. Stockholm, September…" Will paused. "Should I go on?"

"Baltimore," Jane said. "I had a piece in a travelling exhibition at the Walters, last winter. But you were getting to that."

"You were invited to a round table discussion," Will said, "at the museum member's preview. I can confirm that Doctor Lecter was in attendance."

"I suppose Miguel might have seen him there," said Jane. "But he couldn't have known. No one suspected at the time, did they?"

"No," said Will. "No one who knew him socially in Baltimore, at any rate. We're still interviewing in Europe – it's been years, but we might be able to jog someone's memory."

"I was immensely sad when Miguel died," Jane said. "We were very close – like brother and sister. He went through a lot at a very young age, just as I did. He told me I was the only one who was capable of understanding the world in the way that he saw it. And now you suggest to me that he killed two men – more – and that he attempted to kill Hannibal Lecter." She looked at Will. "Out of curiosity: do you see a difference between those killings, and the ones Doctor Lecter himself stands accused of? Or Paul Brody? Lucian Junker? ...Roland Piche?"

"In degree, perhaps," he said. "Not in kind. Not enough."

"Of course not," said Jane. "Never the easy answer, is it? Never what comes naturally to you."

Will forced himself to meet her gaze. There was no outrage in her eyes; no reproach or sharpness. Only a calm empathy.

"Doctor Lecter does stand accused of more than homicide," he said, "Or even cannibalism. He tortured his victims before death. He kept captives. He was known to abuse his patients and encourage their violent thinking, even to manipulate them into suicide or murder. I don't think Miguel Diaz was ever in that position."

"He wasn't," said Jane. "He never had authority over anyone. And now he's dead. What will you do?"

"Find Hannibal Lecter," said Will. "It's the one thing I _can_ do."

"Then I wish you happy hunting," said Jane.

Behind her, the heron took to the air. The downward sweep of its wings set the rushes to swaying.


	6. Buenos Aires I

**_Several years later_ **

Clarice Starling rode into Buenos Aires on a thunderstorm, which broke overhead as the plane taxied to the arrival gate. The senior flight attendant requested applause. "One of the best landings I've seen," she said, "given the turbulence – and I've been flying for thirty-nine years."

It was perhaps an example to emulate. Clarice felt she had to stick a landing, herself.

Customs and various permits took hours. By the time she was in a taxi the sun was back out and bright, though the air was cool and carried the scent of unfamiliar foliage. Inspector Lynch had left a voice mail: would Agent Starling mind coming down to the station at noon? Apologies for the formality, but he had to go directly back to work afterward – no doubt she knew of the ongoing investigation into the "Patmos" case. Clarice dropped her bags off at the hotel, showered, emailed Ardelia, and went.

Cesar Lynch had grey eyes, short, curling grey hair, and the prominent nose of his namesake. The eyes processed Clarice without warmth or reflexive hostility. He did not appear harried. Clarice guessed he rarely did.

"I spoke to Jack Crawford on the phone," he said, "but I'd like to hear the story from you directly."

"It's not much of one," said Clarice. "A loose end from a closed case – the Catherine Martin kidnapping, a few years back. Do you know the artist Andrei Hamada? He's Brazilian."

"I'm vaguely familiar with the name."

"So was I, until a few weeks ago. He did a – an installation, using media materials about Catherine Martin, and some other high-profile crimes. It's on view here, this week, at the International Biennale of Contemporary Art." She passed over a flyer. "He's got some content in there that should never have been released to the public. So I arranged an interview."

Lynch glanced at it briefly. "Jack said this is not a formal line of inquiry."

"It's not. I'm filling in the blanks for my own peace of mind. Jack's too. Probably it amounts to nothing. On the off-chance it turns into a lead here in Buenos Aires, I'll come back around via the official channel, and it'll be yours after that. I just wanted you to be aware beforehand."

There was a pause. Lynch did not press his fingertips together, or any such gesture. He leant forward slightly in his seat and met Clarice's gaze.

"Jack and I are old acquaintances," he said. "I knew his wife very well in NATO – a lovely woman, sadly gone before her time. Given our respective careers and his retirement, I never expected him to call in a favour.  But now he has, and it consists of _being aware_ – of you, Agent Starling.

"I have therefore made myself aware. From your involvement in the Buffalo Bill case, to the Drumgo shootout last month, to the fact that you applied for a hunting permit in order to bring a sidearm into the country."

Clarice said nothing.

"Forgive me for being frank. Have you been suspended from your position with the FBI?"

"No," said Clarice. "I've been asked to take my vacation days. There are… interdepartmental politics. But I'm told it's mainly an optics issue."

She struggled to keep her inflection on _optics_ neutral. Lynch gave a thin smile.

"So in the meantime, you decided to take the hunting trip of your dreams. To Argentina."

"I've joined a safari group," Clarice said. "To be honest, I'll only be in the city for a couple of days. I have another flyer here, if you'd like to look at it."

"With experience one begins to look to precedent," said Lynch, "and I am troubled by mine. You interviewed Dr. Hannibal Lecter, the fugitive serial killer, didn't you? I imagine you've read his file?"

"I have, yes."

"Then you know that the time he spent under an assumed name in Florence corresponded roughly with the period of the Primavera murders. The Carabinieri looked very hard for the perpetrator of those crimes. They devoted all their manpower to the case; reputations and careers were on the line. But they were not looking for Dr. Lecter. Until the FBI came hunting." Lynch smiled again, bone-dry. "It did not end well for the head investigator in question. You must know that too."

"Inspector Pazzi had a personal connection to Dr. Lecter," said Clarice. "And yes, his career was on the line, I suppose. He took risks. I don't believe—" she stopped.

"That describes me?" said Lynch. "No, it does not. But I do not like the timing of this, Agent Starling. 'Patmos' has escalated – he's killed four in eight months, the last two three weeks apart. At this stage behavioural profiling is a luxury: we're as likely to catch him through boots-on-the-ground policing. There is a great deal of pressure on the Metropolitan Police. We are a very new organization, and some might opine we were never intended to have jurisdiction on such cases." He shrugged.

"If the Feds – your Feds – get the collar, it sets a precedent," said Clarice.

"Correct. But _interdepartmental politics_ are a distraction, as I suspect you may agree. You should merely understand that I have no resources at this time to back up your wild goose chase, and no inclination to do so. If it weren't for Jack Crawford I'd eject you from my turf. I also can't afford gunfire in the Centro Culturale Borges, or wherever the hell this Hamada has set up his serial killer tableau."

"I see that," said Clarice. "I'm not here to make life difficult, Inspector. I doubt I'll get that close – to Lecter or 'Patmos' or anyone."

"See that you don't," said Lynch. "But then, I imagine I'll be the least of your concerns if you do."

 

* * *

 

Clarice had packed light. Hunting apparel aside, the essentials were an opening-night ticket to the Teatro Colón's production of Richard Strauss's _Salomé_ , a dress suitable for said occasion, high heels one could run in, and her mother's perfume.

She applied these in order, watching the image come together in the hotel bathroom mirror. A postcard had come one day from a remailing service, and she tucked it into the mirror's chrome edge, picture side out: it showed the langorously lovely marble of Eros whispering in Venus's ear, that graced the second-floor gallery of the opera house. The sculpture's name, Clarice had learned, was _The Secret_.

"Too on the nose, Lecter," she said, under her breath. The dress fell to her knees and clung. It was cream-coloured and sleeveless, under a matching bolero of a newfangled material that had brocade's heft but not weight; the back was translucently panelled. She had picked the ensemble because it did not restrict movement.

The shoes, due to stringent mobility requirements as well as previous feedback, were _very_ expensive.

A dab of colour on the lips. A swipe of pen to bring out the powder mark on her cheekbone: Courage.

She hesitated, at the last, her hand hovering over the battered bottle of L'Air du Temps. It seemed transparently manipulative. But so was the rest, or would be, if the illusion were not inhabited by Clarice's honesty, Clarice's _taste_. A vision of Clarice Starling, she understood, was required for the shadow play: some untrammeled version who walked always in delight, uncaring, on an alternate path. It would have forked from hers before her father's death, before the lambs – an Edenic past the perfume's sun-drenched lilies could sometimes still evoke. She hadn't worn it to work, that day at the BSHCI; had merely spritzed a little in her purse, for comfort.

She had developed an unspoken certainty, later, that the scent-memory signified a lost world for Hannibal Lecter as well. But what that consisted of was impervious to speculation.

The gun went in a concealed thigh holster; the handcuffs went in a sequined clutch.

 

* * *

 

The ticket gave access to a third-floor box, a cocoon of red velvet and Versailles-gold. Clarice arrived early and availed herself of opera glasses, but the audience told her nothing. She had not expected it, though the confirmation cleared her mind and made it cold: she was not there to see, but to be seen.

She had thought Lynch might have her tailed, despite his dismissal, but no one had followed her. Or, if they had, they were very good.

The curtain rose; the theatre darkened, then grew visible again with an approximation of moonlight. Clarice sat, straight-backed, at the front of the box, and gave every appearance of paying attention to the performance. In a sense she did: time had slowed, and the story unspooled before her clearly. There were the fearful, interfering guards, and the young girl – a white-clad slip of a thing – and the voice from its underground prison, out of darkness. _What a strange voice! I would speak with him…_

In the wake of Lecter's escape she had interviewed dozens of his old society acquaintances. Some had relished the opportunity. A Mrs. Komeda had said, _he was so urbane. So charming! There was something about him, to be sure – you knew when he walked into the room. He could make a girl's fur_ crackle _._

Alana Bloom had said, _I thought he sublimated everything – that he didn't know how to be natural. I liked him because of it. You should understand: he was the gentlest man I knew._

Salomé sang: _It is his eyes above all that are terrible. They are like black caverns where dragons dwell. They are like black lakes troubled by a fantastic moon. Do you think he will speak again?_

She felt the lion enter. The carpet was plush and absorbed footfalls; not a breath of air stirred. Only the fine hairs rose on her nape and all along her arms. She kept very still.

"Good evening, Doctor Lecter," she said, after a while. She kept her voice to a murmur: the hall's acoustics were cruelly perfect. Audience noise would not only be heard, but pinpointed.

"Good evening, Clarice," he said. Behind her, closer than she expected. It was the voice she remembered, welling out of the dark. "I'm glad you were able to join me."

She turned. He leant over the seat back beside her, at ease, his attention seemingly on the stage. Evening dress, of course. He did not look much older, but he was still rail thin, and all his hair had paled to silver. It was longer than when she knew him, and fell a little over his eyes. She had the absurd impulse to adjust it.

"Doctor—"

He raised a hand, eyes still on the singer, and Clarice stopped. The orchestra swelled, ecstatic and enticing, with the effect of a distant fanfare. Lecter's lips moved, and presently she parsed the words:

"—those who tread the wine in the wine-press. It is redder than the feet of the doves who haunt the temples..."

His gaze met hers, and he smiled.

"Strauss removed some lines," he said, "in the service of the music. Here Wilde had written: _it is redder than the feet of him who cometh from a forest where he hath slain a lion, and seen gilded tigers_."

"But the play takes place by moonlight," said Clarice, "and blood under moonlight is black."

He acknowledged the point with a tilt of his head. "We shall see that, perhaps."

Test, parry, counter. "Is that why you invited me here, Doctor Lecter? To have company at the opera?"

"Yes," he said simply. As if the admission ceded nothing. "I wished to see you, Clarice. Why did you come?"

"I was curious. I thought you might have something to tell me."

"And if I did? What would you do?"

"That would depend on what you said."

His lip quirked. "The same deal, then, Clarice? Honesty for honesty. _Quid pro quo._ Is that what you want?"

"I want—I'd prefer we stopped playing games, Doctor Lecter. But I suppose we don't always get what we want."

He looked at her for a long moment. "You may ask."

"Who is Patmos?" She had not intended the question before now. But in the space of hours the certainty of connection had lodged in her bones.

He glanced away at the stage. "A messenger – a bodyguard – the forerunner of events to come, if you will. He has no need for a name."

"No need? Or you won't give him one?"

"It is irrelevant to him. He's subsumed in a far more compelling cause than that of human life."

"He thinks he's doing God's work by killing those people? Or yours?"

"Clarice," Lecter said, "you have thought of all this already."

"Maybe I have," said Clarice. "I'd appreciate a name."

"The killer's? Or his next victim's?"

"Either would help." She kept her voice even.

"What else – a time and place for the crime, perhaps? Would you call the good Inspector Lynch, who is on TV so often these days? Or would you prefer to rush in guns blazing?" The tone was still that of kindly, amused admonishment, but his eyes did not match. There was a tightness about them. "I've been remiss – I haven't congratulated you on your promotion at the BAU. Jack has retired, but you're the star pupil, aren't you? At least before this current contretemps."

She said nothing.

"Do you see another lamb, Clarice? If you save it again will they praise you? Tell me about Evelda Drumgo."

It was a moment before she found her voice. "There's nothing to tell, Doctor Lecter."

"Isn't there?" His words slowed, became neutral, as if describing a scene in the mind's eye. "I saw the video. You looked into her eyes. She smiled, didn't she? She shot first. But you're better. Faster. You pulled the trigger and watched her head explode. Her blood all over you. How did that make you feel?"

"If I tell you," she said, "will you come down with me to the station? _Quid pro quo._ After the opera, of course."

There was a silence. She did not want to look at him; her anger might have lost her the game. But it was cold and clear.

"I've wondered, Doctor Lecter," she said. "Do you like winning so much? Is it worth it? After all this time, has it given you anything that you want?"

 _I will not look at you,_ sang Jokanaan. _You are cursed, Salomé. You are cursed, cursed..._

He laid his hand over hers. She lifted it quickly, out of instinct, so he would not feel the contents of the clutch it rested on – the hard shape of the cuffs – and he redirected the motion as if it were the same intended dance. Taking hold of her fingers as if for a courtly kiss. She stared at him.

"Clarice," he said, eventually. Still very gentle. It occurred to her that he seemed tired. "If you cannot tell me, whom can you tell?"

The words fell, down into her it seemed, like pebbles in a dark well.

"I didn't feel," she said, "Not really. I didn't want to shoot her. But I had to, so I would, and she knew I would."

"She spoke to you," he said, "on the video. Didn't she?"

"Yes. She said... 'Let's exchange body fluids, bitch.'" Heard herself make a sound that tried and failed to be a laugh. "She was HIV positive. I don't know if that was in the news. It was why I went for the baby, afterward – to wash off the blood. But I didn't think about it before. There was no time."

"How many does that make, now?"

Her fingers tensed in his, then relaxed.

"Clarice?"

"Seven," she said, "counting the two others. In that gunfight."

"Seven," he murmured. "They put you in situations, don't they? They send you into these botched, unwinnable encounters, with people like Evelda Drumgo. Then they give you a medal for courage, or else they put you on leave. Do you ever think about what the FBI has made of you, Clarice?"

"Sometimes," she said. "Sometimes I think about you."

The minute head tilt again. "And what conclusions have you drawn?"

"I haven't. I just wonder what you thought you saw, when we talked." She held his gaze. "What _you_ thought you were making of me, when you sent me after Buffalo Bill."

She saw it register, and that it pleased him she understood.

"Do you sleep well?" he asked.

She hadn't, immediately after: Evelda's bullet had clipped her ear, and it had hurt like hell. But that wasn't the meaning of the question. "Yes. Yes, I do."

"No bad dreams?"

"No."

It was an admission, and she kept her head high for it.

"Good," he said, as a physician might on a routine query, and smiled. "Now... of all these questions you have, which is the relevant one, that must of need be answered?"

She looked at him. "Time and place," she said. "Where—"

_I hear in the air something that is like the beating of wings, like the beating of vast wings. Do you not hear it?_

"It's tonight," she said. She was on her feet; he still held her hand in his, gazing up at her face. "Patmos is going to kill again tonight. Has killed. _You've kept me here._ "

"You have the freedom to leave me at any time," he said. "That is never in doubt. Or… are you thinking of calling the police after all?"

It sounded, in his disapproving intonation, like a lapse in manners.

The next moment the cuff clicked shut on his wrist. He lifted his hand, and hers came with it, linked by metal. In a single motion she took a step back, drew, unlatched, and took aim. He regarded first the chain, then her, with amusement.

"Clarice," he said.

"Tell me where it's happening," she said.

"And then?"

"And then I call it in. Or we both go and put a stop to it. Your choice."

He shook his head. "The key, Clarice."

In answer she dropped it on the floor and kicked it into the ventilation grate. She had to get him out into the corridor: she did not want to risk firing in the box. At this range she couldn't miss, but the bullet might go through his body and cause damage elsewhere. And it would be loud. A general panic was opportunity for him, not her. She was afraid he knew it.

Lecter watched the key disappear, and turned his dark eyes back to her, considering.

"The Barolo Tower," he said, finally, and she had a split second to think _Hamada's installation!_ before he moved, serpent-quick, surging to his feet. Suddenly he was behind her, one arm clasping her waist in a parody of embrace, the cuffed hand like a vice around her throat. She clawed at it, fruitlessly, not knowing if she was drawing blood. It was immediately impossible to scream.

"Dear Clarice," he said in her ear, "please – this won't take a moment," and then the dark came in a wave and swallowed her whole.

 

* * *

 

It receded much more slowly, like the ebbing tide; to be replaced by music. She had lost the thread of continuity – a minute might have passed, or ten, or an hour. She lay in the recovery position on the carpeted floor of the box, as plushly soft as any bed, and it hurt viciously to swallow.

Something lay in her open palm. Her fingers closed and found a scrap of cardboard.

Clarice struggled to her elbows, and then to a seated position. The cuffs had not been tampered with, but Lecter was gone. He could have dislocated his hand, she supposed. Her clutch and sidearm lay beside her, neatly lined up. She looked at the object that had been left her: it seemed to be a checked bag claim token.

After inquiry and further direction, it was instead the Teatro Colón's valet parking service that took possession of the ticket, and brought around a late-model Triumph Daytona 675R for pickup. The diamond-silver paint so clean it shimmered, like the fur of some great cat, crouched by the curb in moonlight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Teatro Colón is where Barney spots Lecter and Starling at the end of _Hannibal_ and nopes straight out of Argentina, because Barney is the most sensible dude in the books. Last December I went looking for their house on a lark, based on Harris's description, and [somewhat to my surprise found it.](http://genufa.tumblr.com/post/105936492880/also-i-found-hannibal-and-clarices-house-in) (It's next to the Vatican nunciate, because of course it is.)
> 
>  _Salomé_ is 90 minutes long and in German, though in the interest of not being difficult (haha inorite) I've quoted liberally from the original English translation of Wilde's play instead. A number of versions are available on Youtube, including [Teresa Stratas' 1974 film](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ildwhas43sY). I listen to a lot of weird experimental techno but this orchestra makes as messed-up a noise as any I've heard.


	7. Buenos Aires II

_Click._

Will stood in darkness. His hand rested on the wooden back of a chair, which sat under a dim floodlight, as if awaiting a performer. He did not choose to sit.

Before him an image floated, projected as if by the mind's eye: a blurred and immobile white light, traced over with black. A child's scribble. Prison bars or thorns.

_Click._

The picture came into focus, became legible. The white was the moon, full and pallid, oppressive in its size and seeming proximity; caught in a mesh of tree shadow. Branches, summer foliage. A lighter patch at the lower right corner was the tin roof of a garden shed, captured out of focus.

Memory said: you have been here. This is the Leeds house – the backyard, at night. See?

It is the moment of the crime.

_Click._

The image changed. Plasmodia roiled like water, extending tendrils in time lapse. Seeking sustenance, connection. In the forest they hid in darkness, under bark, between damp wood and earth. Will remembered the scent of rain: grave markers, wet leaves. A child's handprint on stone.

_Click._

The front lawn of a house, criss-crossed with police tape. _Catherine Martin led out before a crowd of onlookers, defiant-eyed, clutching a little white dog in her arms. Clarice Starling, steady but pale, gaze raking over him and away._

_Click._

The front lawn of a house, criss-crossed with police tape. _The remnants of sunset, improbably and luridly violet, silhouetting the burnt-out shell of the Dragon's final transformation. The cold clench of Reba's fingers around his._

_Click._

The front lawn of a house, criss-crossed with police tape. _Mrs. Hobbs' body is gone, but her blood darkly blots the steps. The door still swings ajar. The paramedics are moving, he is moving with them, stumbling. Abigail Hobbs is alive. And Hannibal…_

_Click._

"It is 10:20PM," he recited, the mantra soft and clear. "I am in Buenos Aires. My name is Will Graham. I know who I am. I know… I know what I have seen."

He took a step back, and another. The chair, he saw, was not entirely wood: one leg was made of whole deer antler, branching to wrap around the back and seat. It, too, seemed to be caught in stasis, in the midst of transformation.

Will turned and left the room, before he would be required to meet the eyes of the dead.

 

* * *

 

The Palacio Barolo comprised twenty-two floors, rising white and ornate from the grand, tree-lined _avenida,_ halfway between the National Congress and the Casa Rosada on Plaza de Mayo. It stood precisely one hundred metres tall: one for each _canto_ of Dante's _Divine Comedy_ , for which the Italian architect had professed enthusiasm. The lobby represented Hell, and gargoyles massed accordingly over the Gothic-inspired capitals and arches. It was, Will thought, spacious and well-lit for what it intended to evoke. The entire front wall was glass, though the building was closed to visitors during the evening, in order to complete the Biennale's installations in the ground-floor ballrooms and the atrium.

There were no workmen left, though there were roped-off areas, discarded plastic, and other such detritus. The watchman sat at the security desk, well back from the street and facing away. Will stared at the unmoving back of his head. He started forward, but pulled up short after only a few steps, pierced by the certainty that the man was dead: slumped in the chair, blank eyes unseeing. Poisoned, or possibly strangled.

He must have lost time. He had only been waiting for darkness, and now it was too late. Somehow he should have seen, heard…

_The weight of the world._

"Above Hell, Purgatory," Will murmured. "Above Purgatory..." The atrium was round: one gazed upward four stories as if through the concentric spheres of Heaven. The rest of Hamada's installation was in the lighthouse, at the very top of the building.

Will took the elevator, then the stairs.

The lighthouse was unlit, though Buenos Aires glittered, panoramic, through all the windows. Will entered slowly, and was hit with the metallic sweet scent of fresh blood. A few more metres, and he could make out the source: a roughly human shape, suspended spread-eagle against the glass on the far side of the room, visible only in silhouette. His eyes gradually adjusted.

White male, mid-thirties. Dead. A ghostly pallor. Something waxen and unsettling about his face and skin, as if it had been caked on and half-melted off. Every square inch of his bare torso and arms was pricked through with needles – intravenous lines, Will thought: like those used to drain blood for donation. They bristled like wires, full of a liquid that in the dim illumination seemed merely black. Will followed them with his eyes, until they trailed off into the shadows of the ceiling and corners. There were no splashes, no drips, no easily spotted containers. Only a sense of _wicking away_.

It was the wrong design.

Patmos alternated: according to pattern, his next victim should have been female. _Those who overcome will be clothed in white garments, and their names will not be blotted out from the Book of Life_. This broke no seal, sounded no trumpets.

There was a muffled sound. Will flinched and turned his head, seeking.

Something on the ground before him moved. A dark, formless heap, almost invisible. Almost like–

Will took three steps forward, four, and knelt. His questing hands found vinyl plastic. Warm and dry. It twisted away violently from his touch.

"It's all right," he heard himself say, laughably, in the face of all evidence. "It's all right, I'll get you out. Don't be afraid. It's all right, you're all right…" There was a zipper. He took hold of it and pulled.

Dark hair emerged at first, then a white, terrified face. A woman. The tape over her mouth and nearly her whole jaw made further differentiation impossible. Mascara had run and smeared over her cheeks. As far as Will could tell, she had been hog-tied and laid on her side.

"Don't be afraid," he said again. She only flinched away, not seeming to hear. Not looking at him at all.

She was staring over his shoulder.

Will turned, on his knees, trying to rise. There was a looming shadow, a face. The first blow caught him on the side of the head and dizzied him. The second knocked him off his feet. The room spun.

A force caught him by the legs and dragged. Will stared at the floor an inch from his nose, struggling to breathe, unable to make his limbs obey.

"Freeze!"

White light, sudden, like a flood.

And white the angel or saint in the midst of light, and the missing trumpets sounded: an avenging roar like thunder...

 

_The Dragon Slayer_

* * *

 

"Will! Damn it, Graham, snap out of it."

The room came gradually into focus. White and red, lurid under gallery lights. White paint, red blood, white dress, red hair. The heavenly envoy knelt over him, its shoulders shrouded in wings of light: it, or she, had the face of Clarice Starling, which struck Will as solid rationale on God's part. Her features were set in grim determination.

"I should have known," she said. "Of course you'd be knee-deep in this horseshit too." Her voice rasped and cracked on the last syllable, and she turned her head, coughing. The light that bathed her pulsed, dimming slightly.

Will struggled to a seated position. It took two tries to make his own throat work. "Where's—"

"He ran," she said. "Couldn't get to him in time. I've called it in. I thought I dropped him, but he's still on his feet."

That meant they had to leave. Or Will did. But he couldn't leave. "Where's the woman?"

The angel with Clarice's face stared at him. "What woman?"

"The—" He turned. The space on the floor was empty. No sign of vinyl body bag or rope. He gazed at it for a long moment.

"Will," the angel said. It was the too-familiar, careful note in her voice that triggered the old fear, cascading over him like a cold current. But he knew the madness this time; understood its whispers. He let the fear run through him, holding fast against its tug, until it ebbed.

"Patmos's intended victim," he said. "There's a woman. Kidnapped. Probably still alive. I don't know if she's here. But you have to find her."

She took it in stride. "Is that where he's headed? Do you know?"

"No, that's—" Will swallowed. "That wasn't Patmos. _This_ is. Was."

The angel followed his gaze. "Shit," she said with feeling.

"The one who hit me... I know him. I don't remember his name, but I saw him with Jane Marceau, once. When I interviewed her."

"That was nearly ten years ago," she said. Will looked at her, incomprehending, and she let out a huff of breath. "You know what, fine. Why the hell not? Why _wouldn't_ Marceau be hunting again? Right here, right now?"

"I don't think she ever stopped," said Will. "The smart ones don't have to. It depends on whether they want to." It _was_ Clarice Starling, he was beginning to understand: as the strangeness of his vision faded, and with it the unearthly light, leaving behind a tired-looking young woman in an off-white dress. There was a smear of what seemed to be motor oil on her cheek, and fresh bruises rising in a ring about her throat, forming a handmark.

Will stared at it. Something old and neglected and dangerous turned inside him, shifting its coils.

"You were with Hannibal Lecter," he said.

Clarice made a sharp sound that was almost a laugh. "Weren't _you?_ "

He said nothing, but his face must have communicated enough: after a moment hers softened.

"Sorry," she said. "When I saw you I... assumed."

"That he sent me a message? He did. Just not the same kind he sent you, I'd guess." Will paused, as a part of the overall picture fell into place. "If you came because he – did you... get my files?"

Clarice stared at him. "You sent me files," she said.

"Yeah. There's not really anyone else at the..." Will hunched his shoulders slightly. "Congratulations on your promotion, by the way."

"Don't even _start,_ " said Clarice.

"What?"

"I mean thanks. And no, I've – I've been on leave."

"Well," said Will, "they'll be ready for you to action when you get back."

Clarice sat back on her heels and gazed at him. " _We may define play as an activity with no moral dimension,_ " she said, suddenly, as if quoting. "Do you remember that?"

Will blinked at the non-sequitur. "I – yes."

"That's what this is," said Clarice. "I know it is: one of Lecter's murder games. He wants us to play. You, me, Marceau, Patmos – and _he_ just lost the round, so maybe – _maybe_ – you should summarize the ground rules."

"Patmos is just the last," Will said.

"The last or the most recent?"

"I don't know." Will took a deep breath. "Close to the last, I think. No one really has any idea except Hannibal Lecter. There were five patients that died under his care that we know of, several afterward, just from his time in Baltimore. I helped him burn his notes, so I remember... some things. Nothing useful to track him with, except in retrospect."

"But you did," said Clarice. "You caught him."

" _We_ caught him. That is, he was behind bars. It wasn't over even then, but..." Will gave a soft laugh. "I did walk away. Eventually."

"And then he escaped," said Clarice. "He disappeared off the map."

There was an odd note in her voice. Will blinked and averted his gaze, so he wouldn't have to grapple with her understanding. He felt steady enough to get to his feet, and occupied himself with doing so. Clarice did as well, in the corner of his eye, brushing off her knees and holstering her gun.

"Jack told me once," he said, "that the work we did gave me structure. I still don't know if that's true, and I wasn't going to come back to the BAU, but…" He shrugged. "I wasn't getting much out of my day, otherwise. You saw that."

"Better the devil you know," Clarice said. "Debatable, if you're talking about Hannibal Lecter."

"Yeah... yeah, well. There was no trail, basically, for four years. Didn't know where he was. Until, about a year ago, he started tying up loose ends."

He waited for her to ask what that meant, but she didn't. Only crossed her arms, after a second, in an unconsciously defensive gesture.

"He could have killed me," she said, "and he chose not to."

"No," Will said, "he wouldn't. You're special. His, ah, _unfinished masterpiece_. He'll happily damage you in other ways, but... For the two of us, I think... He just wants us to pay attention. In his mind, it's not right that we move on, go about our lives, and never even think about him. Not when he's still..." He stopped himself.

He watched the rejoinders play, perfectly legible, over Clarice Starling's face: both the acidic and the vulnerable. She held her tongue on all of them. Instead she stepped closer to him, just inside his personal space, and raised her hand. Paused.

"May I?" she asked.

It was not a cursory question. After a moment he nodded, jerkily. She pressed her hand against his forehead. Her skin was dry and cool and smelt of flowers.

"You should see a doctor for that," she said. He shrugged.

"It's auto-immune," he said. "I've had it flare up before, I'll… it's not urgent. Yet."

"You didn't ask me about him," she said. "How he looked, or anything."

She hadn't moved her hand. Will swallowed. "Hannibal?"

"Yeah."

The ache that came with the name was sometimes lancing, sometimes dull; he didn't think there could still be sweetness in it. "How did he look?"

"Tired," she said. "He looked tired. Didn't act it, though. Do you know what you just told me, Will? That Lecter wants it to end. That he thinks _he_ gets to decide what his legacy is, out of everything he's ever started. And you – you should be in the hospital. You sent me your files and walked into this place without a goddamned sidearm. You chased him down, but you're not playing to win."

He knew it was true as she said it. Leant a little, against her touch, and let his eyes slide shut for a moment.

"He won't go back to jail, you know," he said. "I don't think I can kill him."

"That's not what I'm asking." A pause. "I do what's right because I _have_ to, Will, not because I want to. It's the person I am – Hannibal Lecter made me understand that. But you don't _have_ to do anything; not anymore. No one even knows you were involved in this."

"I should do what I want, you mean," said Will.

"You should _know_ what you want," said Clarice, "otherwise you're just going to fuck up. Again."

The brutal honesty startled a smile out of him.

"You're like Jack," he said. "Bedrock."

"I'll take that as a compliment." She dropped her hand and stepped back from him.

"They're headed for Marceau," she said, "both of them. You have any idea where to start looking?"

He nodded.

"Good, because I don't."

"You're not coming," he said, not really a question. Heard the wistful note in his own voice and wondered at it.

"No," she said, "my priority's the abducted woman. She's either in this building, or Patmos worked here, or he knew the security guard – it's enough to go on. I'll keep Inspector Lynch off your back. Here."

He caught the key fob.

"It's the Daytona parked on Uruguay Street," she said. "Don't break any speed limits. Will—"

He paused at the elevator door and turned, looking back at her.

"Lecter's never gotten what he wanted," she said. "Not really. You've kept it from him. So you see: in the end we're all the same."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Montserrat has a very visible beat cop presence, and the Palacio Barolo is a few blocks from the seat of government, so I would imagine the police response time in reality is better than this. But that's par for the course for canon, isn't it?


	8. Buenos Aires III

Hannibal dismissed the taxi a block from his destination. Buenos Aires dined late, and the Park Hyatt was nearby, with all its coming and going guests; Avenida Alvear itself was rich and well-trafficked enough that he was unremarkable, even in evening wear. He had wrapped his handkerchief around his hand, discreetly, to keep the joint immobile.

The Park Hyatt was a sprawling, symmetrical Beaux Arts manor that sat back from the street on a half-moon courtyard, fronted by doormen and ornamental grilles, and flanked on both sides by architectural curiosities. To the east, the exquisite white Neo-Classical construct of the Vatican Nunciate in Buenos Aires, which fact amused Hannibal – it reminded him of his old Baltimore office, whose building had once been the rectory of the adjoining church. Hannibal believed, generally speaking, in keeping one's enemies close; it made sense that God would hew to the same principle. It seemed to him that for many years they had walked in parallel, not conversing but within hailing distance of each other, their paths converging and diverging in the sand.

Perhaps, after all, they had been friends?

He passed the brightly-lit courtyard of the Hyatt, and fell into shadow.

The westernmost lot was a grand, turreted house, Gothic in style, in brick and gray stone. Trees and vines grew thickly around it, verdant enough to obscure the view from the street. The black iron spikes that fenced in the enclosure were tall and forbidding, set on a stone wall that came up to Hannibal's chest. It was perfectly dark. The shutters were closed, and no light seeped from under them.

Hannibal turned the corner. There was a side gate, he knew, set into the wall, through which the post was taken. He found and touched the latch; it swung open on silent hinges, and closed behind him just as easily.

Two large German shepherds lay on the flagstones of the interior yard, seemingly asleep. There was no smell of blood or poison, but they did not stir as Hannibal passed.

The front door, too, was unlocked.

Inside was shadowy, though not pitch-black as he would have expected; as if there were an uncovered skylight, somewhere. Perhaps lamps had been lit. The air had the stale, chilly texture of unlived space. Hannibal smelled dust and old floor polish, and other, less usual notes: candlewax, gunmetal, something powdery-sweet like a young girl's perfume... A grand, marble staircase swept upward from the atrium. He followed it to the mezzanine, treading carefully, in order not to make sound.

Rooms opened out into rooms. Some were dense with furnishings and paintings draped with plastic sheets, themselves yellowed with age. Others were empty. Hannibal traversed what once had been a ballroom, its floors bare, but the high ceiling still hung with dusty, looping chandeliers. Suits of armour stood guard at the entrances, arrayed with plumed lances, swords, and crossbows; straight-backed chairs lined the walls neatly, awaiting dancers who would never arrive. Or their ghosts, perhaps. He imagined an unseen crowd parting at his approach, their pale gazes on him, speculative.

Beyond that, he found the library.

It was illuminated by candles. Just enough to give a cavernous sense to the space, as the flames flickered and cast criss-crossing fingers of shadow across the shelved walls. Hannibal saw tall stands of virgin wax tapers, set close together – some on candelabras of various heights, others on the unprotected floor. Only a scant two or three had been lit. He thought of mycelium: they resembled clustered fruiting bodies, an enchanted, moon-white forest breaking upward through rotting wood and plaster. The room smelled of wax, and that odd, powdery sweetness.

Would the spores take root in his lungs? His brain? Would they grow?

A blue velvet recamier had been moved to the room's exact centre, like the stage prop for a monologue. Jane Marceau sat, straight-backed, her feet set close together and her profile to the door. She wore a white linen dress, and a blanket draped over her lap and legs. Her hair had been brushed out and shone with rich, bronze lowlights.

"Doctor Lecter," she said.

"Good evening, Jane," he answered. "How are you?"

"Well enough." She turned her head and smiled at him. "Forgive me if I don't greet you properly… My legs are weak. It won't be long now, I'm afraid."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Are you?" She considered the possibility gravely, raising her eyes to his. "Perhaps you are. Will you do me a favour?"

"Of course."

"Light my candles for me."

Hannibal inclined his head in acceptance, and took up the nearest lit taper from the door. He moved around the room, counter-clockwise, touching the flame to each white wick in turn and waiting until it caught, with a minute hiss. The gesture was graceful, oddly formal in its deliberate repetition. Jane watched his progress, only her head turning; and as each candle caught the room grew brighter with the quality of fire.

_It was not sunlight. She had forgotten what the sun looked like, just as she had forgotten night. The merciless, windowless, perpetual illumination did not allow for memory to persist, and unlike the birds, her cage had no covering._

_She lay naked on her side, staring into her friend's eyes. They were black, and pebble-like: once they had been little, round, plastic stud-buttons, before she had fashioned them into a gaze. Now they were holes, or mirrors without a reflection. She rubbed her thumb over her friend's face, reshaping the wax. It felt greasy and warm to the touch. She had given it suppleness, and life._

_She had been allotted these raw materials: stray buttons, candle ends, bits of straw and feather that drifted within reach. The Man who ruled the room and the birds thought they kept her content. He no longer tied her legs together when she was locked in her cage. He said that she had been good. But that was a word that had lost all meaning. She had only learnt to be quiet, only to be._

_A key turned, in a faraway, unseen lock, its mechanism only guessed at. She heard muffled voices, a startlement and a hush from the unseen birds in the next room. The Man had brought someone else home._

_She waited. Quiet._

_Eventually the voices died away. Then a sudden clatter, as if a chair had been kicked over. The birds rose in alarum, filling the air with the rustle of wings and claws, the battering of small soft bodies against cage bars. Even so they did not call, did not sing. There were no screams either, as she had covered her ears against on other occasions; no pleas or prayers._

_A weight hit the floor, with a heavy, dull noise. Then—_

_Darkness fell, abruptly._

_It broke her silence: a keening gurgle issued from her lips, more of confusion than terror. Something beat against her ribs as well, too fast, soft and clawing to get out. But nothing answered – only the novelty of the void, unseeing and unseeable. It blanketed her from head to toe._

_Slowly, slowly, the birds settled._

_Time passed without possibility of measurement._

_She had no context for the wavering golden pinpoint, when it appeared before her eyes: it was unparseable even as it expanded in size and closeness. But she could see again, after a fashion, and there was another presence in the room. It was not the Man._

_She lay still. There was no point in moving. Only her thumb smoothed over the wax in her hand, over and over, smearing away the semblance of a face. Her gaze skittered over pale hair, dark eyes; hands that moved whitely around her cage, testing until they found the joins, the little hole for a key. He saw her looking, and smiled. Said nothing._

_He didn't tell her to leave the cage, once it was open. She didn't understand what he wanted of her until he reached in and lifted her out, bodily; and then she found she couldn't stand, or even crawl. Her arms and legs would not support her weight. He wrapped her in a blanket from the bed and carried her into the next room._

_There were more lights here, prickling her corneas like needles, and the familiar smells were stronger: wax, dirty straw and feathers, and the rich, metallic sweetness of blood. What remained of the Man – it was recognizable enough – lay, spread-eagled, on the floor. Her new friend cradled her easily against his chest, and let her look her fill._

_Words bloomed in her mind, eventually, like black lilies, and became incipient sound. She said, "Did you kill him?"_

_In lieu of answering he set her down on the floor, blanket and all, and sat, cross-legged, beside her, ducking his head so that he was at her level. Still smiling. Showed her what was in his hands: a long silver needle, and a bobbin of red thread. The flame-lights caught and smouldered in his eyes, such that they seemed red as well._

_"Let's make something beautiful," he said. "We can do it together."_

The last of the tapers caught, spluttering blue. Tears brimmed in Jane's eyes.

"Am I what you wanted me to be?" she said. "Does it matter to you?"

Hannibal watched her, head tilted a little. "You are the result of the Becoming you have chosen," he said, eventually. "I only touched a wick to the flame... once."

"By whim."

"Does it matter? You are an artist, Jane. You have brought a great deal of beauty into the world. It has been bettered by your passage, and made more radiant. For another to claim responsibility for that would be the height of presumption."

"But you _do_ presume, don't you, Doctor Lecter?" she said. "That you should be the one to decide how the story ends."

He smiled, gently.

"Say rather that I'd like to _experience_ how the story ends. I'm a great fan of your work. But it won't be long now, just as you say... You shouldn't shoot through the blanket, Jane. You won't be able to control the trajectory."

In answer she let it slip from her lap and lifted the concealed pistol in a two-handed grip, pointing it at the centre of his body. The safety was off. It was a small semi-automatic, designed for a woman, but her arms were thin and trembled.

"I _am_ grateful, Doctor Lecter," she said. "You already changed my ending, once. You gave me the gift of time... I've been happy, you know. Quite often. I've been loved. Have you?"

Hannibal said nothing. He watched the tremor the gun barrel described in the air, avidly, and was entirely still. The room was so silent they heard the creaks of the old house settling, the crackling of individual candles as if they were a single flame. A motorcycle engine revved and dopplered past, somewhere outside, and cut off abruptly.

Hannibal moved, feinting to the side, then rushed forward. His speed was frightening. Jane fired, fired again, at least one bullet finding its target, and then the gun was knocked out of her hand and clattered onto the floor, spinning away toward the door. Hannibal took her by the throat and _lifted_ her. She came away easily, as if she weighed nothing at all.

Her feet kicked, then went limp.

A single, deep note rang out, like the plucking of a baritone harp. Hannibal flew backward as if batted by a great, unseen hand, hit the ground near the far wall, and lay unmoving amid toppled candelabras. The black fletch of an arrow bolt protruded from his side. Jane, released, crumpled bonelessly to the ground.

The man in the doorway screamed, a thin, eerie sound. He tossed the crossbow aside and rushed at Hannibal; a serrated knife flashed bright in his hand.

Hannibal allowed him to get within range before sweeping his leg out. The man hit the floorboards with the entire force of his momentum, rolled, and came up crouching. Hannibal's scalpel was in his hand – the useable one – but it had no range, and he could not move; could hardly breathe. Jane's bullet had taken him in the shoulder. He fought the darkness lapping at the edges of his vision, and bared his teeth. The artery, if he could reach it, if the knife went for the chest or belly rather than the throat—

A sharp report, and another – three, four. The man half rose to his feet, then spun sideways with repeated impact. Red blossomed in a fine spray across Hannibal's field of vision and remained there, as if gravity or time were suspended.

Will walked through the red mist, and stopped at the feet of the fallen man. He lifted Jane's pistol and fired twice more: a classic double tap. The purity of line from his calm gaze to his extended arms to the matte black of the barrel mouth – entirely steady – was the flawless single brushstroke of a great master. His perfection took Hannibal by the throat and stopped his lungs.

Will would never know – could by definition never see – how beautiful he was when he killed. In all they had willingly or reluctantly shared with each other, that experience remained Hannibal's solitary privilege.

His eyes drifted closed, half against his will, and the variegated marble halls of his memory palace rose to meet him. Each treasure set in its secret place. _One last object of beauty..._ Blood trickled down his side; pain seared and rended, but at a distance.

Hands passing over his wounds, then against his cheek: warm, as the chill of shock took him. "Hannibal!"

Hannibal reopened his eyes to the world, and Will's face. Will was pale, his jaw set. Reflected firelight wavered in his eyes, tinging their familiar riverine colour with gold. The room smelled of hot wax, smoke, seared flesh.

"Candelabras and medieval weaponry," Will said. "You've let your propensity for drama overtake your good taste."

Hannibal tried to smile and failed. Reached out, with some effort, and touched Will's hand.

"Dear Will," he said, "I'm glad you're here."

"You knew I would come."

"I hoped you would." Hannibal had learnt to prefer hope to expectation, he did not say. Will would understand. He watched Will's face, fascinated as always by the play of emotion: regret and determination, both oddly misplaced.

"Are you going to kill me?" he said. "It's still your choice, for now."

Will's mouth twisted. "Of course it is," he said. "You make me run the gauntlet of your egotistical mechanisms – your orreries – and at the end you ask for _my choice_."

"If time could turn back—"

"Don't," Will said.

"If time could turn back," said Hannibal, "I would give you everything and anything you wanted, at the moment you wanted it. I'm curious as to what would have happened. Aren't you?"

Will closed his eyes. "You need medical attention," he said. "It's... not going to be safe here."

Hannibal shook his head. Will took his hand in both of his, and he focussed on the physical sensation: the surest proof of connection, as the rest of the world fell slowly away, and the soaring vaults in his mind began to crumble. Marble façades shearing into dust. Fire licked at the corners of his vision; whether real or unreal he hardly cared.

"We envy the butterfly, don't we, Will?" he said. "It has so little to do with the caterpillar. All mistakes rewound and erased…" Will's hands clenched around his, convulsively. He bent his head, so low that a dark strand of hair brushed against Hannibal's mouth.

"You whispered through my chrysalis," he said. "Waited for what was inside to die, and rebuild itself, and rupture its way into the world."

"Yes," Hannibal murmured. _A new and unimaginable thing._

"Now it's my turn," said Will.

 


	9. Epilogue - Sugar Loaf Key

**_Four months afterward_ **

The woman – a hale and smiling middle-aged blonde – met Clarice at the inside door by the reception desk, leash in hand. "He's been very excited all day," she said. "Haven't you, Marius? You know you're going on a trip, don't you?"

The fat bulldog sat on his haunches and gazed at Clarice placidly, tongue lolling. He appeared entirely phlegmatic at the prospect. Clarice squatted and held out a hand for him to sniff. The lolling intensified.

"You know," said the woman, "he's paid up until the end of March. I can give you a rain check if you like. I know you're taking him back to DC, but—" she shrugged.

"I'd appreciate it," Clarice said. "Thank you."

The woman handed her Marius's worldly belongings – in a Gucci carrier bag, which struck Clarice as out of character for his owner, though it was battered and functionally roomy – and rounded the far side of the desk for a pen. "Will – Will Graham – he used to have a whole pack out on Sugar Loaf Key," she said. "He'd find them homes, but the next time we'd see him he'd have picked up others. My guess is word got out and folks started dumping strays on his bit of beach like he ran a no-kill shelter. But the last few years he travelled too much. Five days here, two weeks there... It's a nice thing you're doing for him."

"Well, I've met Marius before," said Clarice. "He's a sweetheart."

"Isn't that the truth. We're always glad to have him here. But it'll be good for him to be in a stable environment. You don't know when Will is coming back, do you?"

"No," Clarice said. "No, it's... not a certain thing, actually."

"Oh, I see," said the woman. Clarice wondered what she thought she understood. She stroked the velvety dome of Marius's head, and got a goofy grin in return.

"Maybe he'll send for this guy," she said, "once things are more settled."

The woman hummed. "I bet he does," she said. "Daddy'll come and get you, won't he, Marius? Won't he? Good boy!"

 

* * *

 

Clarice had taken the weekend; she'd rented a car and her flight back to DC was next day. Price had sent three emails about the latest batch of autopsies in the time it took her to settle with the pet hotel, none of which were urgent. She put her phone on vibrate, dumped the Gucci bag in the trunk next to Marius's crate, and turned onto U.S. Route 1. Marius stuck his head out the window, glanced around, looked back at her, and whined in inquiry.

"Don't get your hopes up, buddy," she said, as much to herself as him. Marius only panted.

It was worth a drive, not just for the ocean breeze: Clarice had to see for herself. She couldn't assume. _Assume,_ Jack Crawford liked to say, _makes an ass out of you and me._ And the little cabin stood intact just above the sandline, the way she remembered. But it was empty, as she'd also known it would be.

Marius stopped on the porch and gave a soft, confused whuff. He didn't follow her inside. Clarice left the door ajar and made a careful circuit. Everything looked wiped down, swept clean, even the battered old couch. The bed was stripped of sheets and the mini-fridge unplugged. It could have happened four months ago, or more, or much less. There wasn't a lot of sand, all things considered. She ran fingers over the walls, which were covered with pin holes, as if a great many papers had been tacked to them haphazardly.

There had been papers, and more: two solidly taped-up cardboard crates' worth. A hard drive, three spiral notebooks, folders full of newspaper clippings and photographs and Xeroxed reports, all annotated in Graham's surprisingly neat hand. It was the entire timeline of a life – Hannibal Lecter's – told in the form of _influence_. Years of work to compile the narrative; weeks of reading on Clarice's part, to reconstruct from it an understanding of present or future dangers left behind.

Mostly, she had found, it was too late to do anything but understand.

The brochure of the pet hotel had been in the first crate, with the receipt for Marius's stay stapled inside. The cabin's front door key had been taped to the hard drive.

A few books remained, piled in the small alcove that had served Will as a writing table. Clarice picked up the topmost one – _In Praise of Shadows,_ by Junichiro Tanizaki – and thumbed it: it was a slight paperback, barely more than a pamphlet. The title page bore an inscription, in an unfamiliar, feminine hand.

 

> Hagi-ware used in chado is fired to create fine crackles in the glaze, in order that the tea may gradually seep through and stain the bowl: this mutation in colour – proof of usage – is considered exquisite.
> 
> The pristine state foretells the broken, and encompasses it: therein lies beauty. For all is transient, and neither begins nor ends in perfection.
> 
> B.

 

Clarice kept the book in her hand and stepped outside, squinting against the light. It was difficult to discern colours, only relative brightness: a cloudless pale sky, a dark and reflective sea. The tide was high, and each successive wave cast a net of fine foam over shallow clear water, white against white.

The driftwood log was still there. So were the herons: closer now, brown-grey in the sun, bobbing and weaving in the surf.

Marius fell in beside her, waddling as his feet sank into the dry sand.

"I bet you don't run much," Clarice said to him. He waggled his stumpy tail at her gamely, though, so she found a stick and threw it. To her surprise he shot after it, barking. The herons took off at his approach, circled – dark silhouettes passing overhead – and settled again.

Clarice laughed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _In Praise of Shadows_ may well be the theoretical bible of the James Hawkinson aesthetic. (It's easily found online, but be aware that it's a Japanese essay published in 1933, with the cultural essentialism and colorism that entails.) I don't think _Hannibal Rising_ went into _wabi-sabi_ much, which I consider a miss on Harris's part -- if you're going to go full weeaboo you may as well make it your thematic while.
> 
> Thank you for seeing this story through the five months it took to post (and the eleven months it took to write XD)! The people reading it now at a single go will, I suspect, have the better and more cohesive experience. For that I have my writing group -- Kara, [leupagus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus), and [rageprufrock](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rageprufrock) \-- to thank for their immensely helpful suggestions and comments, as well as several other sensible beta readers along the way. This one's for all of you. <3


End file.
